JOHN  BURI\OI/GHS 


SNOW    BUNTINGS. 


WINTER  SUNSHINE 


JOHN    BURROUGHS 

AUTHOR    OF  "  WAKE-ROBIN  "    AND   "  BIRDS    AND   POETS  ' 


NEW    YORK 

PUBLISHED    BY   HURD    AND    HOUGHTON 
be  Htoerstte  Preec 

1877 


Enteied,  according  to  Act  ol  Congress,  in  the  year  1875,  by 

JjOHN  BURROUGHS, 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  \Vashiuzton. 


RIVERSIDE,    CAMBRIDGE  : 
G  R  E  0  T  V  P  K  I)     A  X  D     PRINTED 
II.    0.    HOUOIITON    AND    COMPANY. 


If  77 


PREFATORY. 


THE  only  part  of  my  book  I  wish  to  preface  is 
the  last  part,  —  the  foreign  sketches, —  and  it  is  not 
much  matter  about  these,  since,  if  they  do  not  contain 
their  proof  I  shall  not  attempt  to  supply  it  here. 

I  have  been  told  that  De  Lolme,  who  wrote  a  no- 
table book  on  the  English  Constitution,  said  that 
after  he  had  been  in  England  a  few  weeks,  he  fully 
made  up  his  mind  to  write  a  book  on  that  country ; 
after  he  had  lived  there  a  year,  he  still  thought  of 
writing  a  book,  but  was  not  so  certain  about  it,  but 
that  after  a  residence  of  ten  years  he  abandoned  his 
first  design  altogether.  Instead  of  furnishing  an  ar- 
gument against  writing  out  one's  first  impressions  of 
a  country,  I  think  the  experience  of  the  Frenchman 
shows  the  importance  of  doing  it  at  once.  The  sen- 
sations of  the  first  day  are  what  we  want  —  the  first 
flush  of  the  traveler's  thought  and  feeling,  before 
his  perception  and  sensibilities  become  cloyed  or 
blunted,  or  before  he  in  any  way  becomes  a  part  of 
that  which  he  would  observe  and  describe.  Then  the 
American  in  England  is  just  enough  at  home  to  en- 


iv  PREFATORY. 

able  him  to  discriminate  subtle  shades  and  differences 
at  first  sight  which  might  escape  a  traveler  of  another 
and  antagonistic  race.  He  has  brought  with  him, 
but  little  modified  or  impaired,  his  whole  inheritance 
of  English  ideas  and  predilections,  and  much  of 
what  he  sees  affects  him  like  a  memory.  It  is  his 
own  past,  his  ante-natal  life,  and  his  long  buried  an- 
cestors look  through  his  eyes  and  perceive  with  his 
sense. 

I  have  attempted  only  the  surface,  and  to  express 
my  own  first  day's  uncloyed  and  unalloyed  satisfac- 
tion. Of  course  I  have  put  these  things  through  my 
own  processes  and  given  them  my  own  coloring  (as 
who  would  not),  and  if  other  travelers  do  not  find 
what  I  did,  it  is  no  fault  of  mine ;  or  if  the  "  Britr 
ishers  "  do  not  deserve  all  the  pleasant  things  I  say  of 
them,  why  then  so  much  the  worst  for  them. 

In  fact,  if  it  shall  appear  that  I  have  treated  this 
part  in  the  same  spirit  that  I  have  the  themes  in  the 
other  chapters,  reporting  only  such  things  as  im- 
pressed me  and  stuck  to  me  and  tasted  good,  I  shall 
be  satisfied. 

Esopus-ou-HuDSON,  November,  1875. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

I.    WINTER  SUNSHINE 7 

II.    EXHILARATIONS  OB-  THE  KOAD     ....  31 

III.  THE  SNOW-WALKERS 51 

IV.  THE  Fox 79 

V.    A  MARCH  CHRONICLE 99 

VI.    AUTUMN  TIDES 11:3 

VII.    THE  APPLE 129 

VIII.    AN  OCTOBER  ABROAD 149 

i.   Mellow  England 151 

n.    English  Characteristics       ....  190 

HI.   A  Glimpse  of  France       .....  205 

iv.   From  London  to  New  York  220 


WINTER   SUNSHINE. 


WINTER  SUNSHINE. 

AN  American  resident  in  England  is  reported  as 
saying  that  the  English  have  an  atmosphere  but  no 
climate.  The  reverse  of  this  remark  would  apply 
pretty  accurately  to  our  own  case.  We  certainly 
have  a  climate,  a  two-edged  one  that  cuts  both  ways, 
threatening  us  with  sun-stroke  on  the  one  hand  and 
with  frost-stroke  on  the  other,  but  we  have  no  atmos- 
phere to  speak  of  in  New  York  and  New  England, 
except  now  and  then  during  the  dog-days,  or  the  fit- 
ful and  uncertain  Indian  Summer.  An  atmosphere, 
the  quality  of  tone  and  mellowness  in  the  near  dis- 
tance, is  the  product  of  a  more  humid  climate.  Hence, 
as  we  go  south  from  New  York,  the  atmospheric 
effects  become  more  rich  and  varied,  until  on  reach- 
ing the  Potomac  you  find  an  atmosphere  as  well  as  a 
climate.  The  latter  is  still  on  the  vehement  Ameri- 
can scale,  full  'of  sharp  and  violent  changes  and  con- 
trasts, baking  and  blistering  in  summer,  and  nipping 
and  blighting  in  winter,  but  the  spaces  are  not  so 
purged  and  bare ;  the  horizon  wall  does  not  so  often 
have  the  appearance  of  having  just  been  washed  and 
scrubbed  down.  There  is  more  depth  and  visibility 


10  WINTER   SUNSHINE. 

to  the  open  air,  a  stronger  infusion  of  the  Indian 
Summer  element  throughout  the  year,  than  is  found 
farther  riorth.  The  days  are  softer  and  more  brood- 
ing, and  the  nights  more  enchanting.  It  is  here  that 
Walt  Whitman  saw  the  full  moon 

"  Pour  down  Night's  nimbus  floods," 

as  any  one  may  see  her,  during  her  full,  from  Octo- 
ber to  May.  There  is  more  haze  and  vapor  in  the 
atmosphere  during  that  period,  and  every  particle 
seems  to  collect  and  hold  the  pure  radiance  until  the 
world  swims  with  the  lunar  outpouring.  Is  not  the 
full  moon  always  on  the  side  of  fair  weather  ?  I  think 
it  is  Sir  William  Herschell  who  says  her  influence 
tends  to  dispel  the  clouds.  Certain  it  is  her  beauty 
is  seldom  lost  or  even  veiled  in  this  southern  or  semi- 
southern  clime. 

It  is  here  also  the  poet  speaks  of  the 

"  Floods  of  the  yellow  gold  of  the  gorgeous, 
Indolent  sinking  sun,  burning,  expanding  the  air," 

a  description  that  would  not  apply  with  the  same 
force  farther  north,  where  the  air  seems  thinner  and 
less  capable  of  absorbing  and  holding  the  sunlight. 
Indeed,  the  opulence  and  splendor  of  our  climate,  at 
least  the  climate  of  our  Atlantic  sea-board,  cannot  be 
fully  appreciated  by  the  dweller  north  of  the  thirty- 
ninth  parallel.  It  seemed  as  if  I  had  never  seen  but 
a  second-rate  article  of  sunlight  or  moonlight  until  I 
had  taken  up  my  abode  in  the  National  Capital.  It 
may  be,  perhaps,  because  we  have  such  splendid  speci- 


WINTER   SUNSHINE.  11 

mens  of  both  at  that  period  of  the  year  when  one 
values  such  things  highest,  namely,  in  the  fall  and 
winter  and  early  spring.  Sunlight  is  good  any  time, 
but  a  bright,  evenly  tempered  day  is  certainly  more 
engrossing  to  the  attention  in  winter  than  in  summer, 
and  such  days  seem  the  rule,  and  not  the  exception,  in 
the  Washington  winter.  The  deep  snows  keep  to 
the  north,  the  heavy  rains  to  the  south,  leaving  a 
blue  space  central  over  the  border  States.  And  there 
is  not  one  of  the  winter  months  but  wears  this  blue 
zone  as  a  girdle. 

I  am  not  thinking  especially  of  the  Indian  Sum- 
mer, that  charming  but  uncertain  second  youth  of  the 
New  England  year,  but  of  regularly  recurring  lucid 
inter vals  in  the  weather  system  of  the  Virginia  fall 
and  winter,  when  the  best  our  climate  is  capable  of 
stands  revealed, —  southern  days  with  northern  blood 
in  their  veins,  exhilarating,  elastic,  full  of  action,  the 
hyperborean  oxygen  of  the  North  tempered  by  the 
dazzling  sun  of  the  South,  a  little  bitter  in  winter  to 
all  travelers  but  the  pedestrian  —  to  him  sweet  and 
warming  —  but  in  autumn  a  vintage  that  intoxicates 
all  lovers  of  the  open  air. 

It  is  impossible  not  to  dilate  and  expand  under 
such  skies.  One  breathes  deeply  and  steps  proudly, 
and  if  he  have  any  of  the  eagle  nature  in  him  it 
comes  to  the  surface  then.  There  is  a  sense  of  alti- 
tude about  these  dazzling  November  and  December 
days,  of  mountain  tops  and  pure  ether.  The  earth  in 
passing  through  the  fire  of  summer  seems  to  have 
lost  all  its  dross,  and  life  all  its  impediments. 


12  WINTER  SUNSHINE. 

But  what  does  not  the  dweller  in  the  National 
Capital  endure  in  reaching  these  days?  Think' of 
the  agonies  of  the  heated  term,  the  ragings  of  the 
dog-star,  the  purgatory  of  heat  and  dust,  of  baking, 
blistering  pavements,  of  cracked  and  powdered  fields, 
of  dead  stifling  night  air,  from  which  every  tonic  and 
antiseptic  quality  seems  eliminated,  leaving  a  resid- 
uum of  sultry  malaria  and  all  diffusing  privy  and 
sewer  gases,  that  lasts  from  the  first  of  July  to  near 
the  middle  of  September.  But  when  October  is 
reached,  the  memory  of  these  things  is  afar  off,  and 
the  glory  of  the  days  is  a  perpetual  surprise. 

I  sally  out  in  the  morning  with  the  ostensible  pur- 
pose of  gathering  chestnuts,  or  autumn  leaves,  or 
persimmons,  or  exploring  some  run  or  branch.  It  is, 
say,  the  last  of  October  or  the  first  of  November. 
The  air  is  not  balmy,  but  tart  and  pungent,  like  the 
flavor  of  the  red-cheeked  apples  by  the  road-side.  In 
the  sky  not  a  cloud,  not  a  speck  ;  a  vast  dome  of 
blue  ether  lightly  suspended  above  the  world.  The 
woods  are  heaped  with  color  like  a  painter's  easel  — 
great  splashes  of  red  and  orange  and  gold.  The 
ponds  and  streams  bear  upon  their  bosoms  leaves  of 
all  tints,  from  the  deep  maroon  of  the  oak  to  the  pale 
yellow  of  the  chestnut.  In  the  glens  and  nooks  it  is 
so  still  that  the  chirp  of  a  solitary  cricket  is  notice- 
able. The  red  berries  of  the  dogwood  and  spice-bush 
and  other  shrubs  shine  in  the  sun  like  rubies  and 
coral.  The  crows  fly  high  above  the  earth  as  they  do 
only  on  such  days,  forms  of  ebony  floating  across  the 


WINTER   SUNSHINE.  13 

azure,  and  the  buzzards  look  like  kingly  birds,  sail- 
ing round  and  round. 

Or  it  may  be  later  in  the  season,  well  into  Decem- 
ber. The  days  are  equally  bright,  but  a  little  more 
rugged.  The  mornings  are  ushered  in  by  an  im- 
mense spectrum  thrown  upon  the  eastern  sky.  A 
broad  bar  of  red  and  orange  lies  along  the  low  hori- 
zon, surmounted  by  an  expanse  of  color  in  which 
green  struggles  with  yellow  and  blue  with  green  half 
the  way  to  the  zenith.  By  and  by  the  red  and  or- 
ange spread  upward  and  grow  dim,  the  spectrum  fades 
and  the  sky  becomes  suffused  with  yellow  white  light, 
and  in  a  moment  the  fiery  scintillations  of  the  sun 
begin  to  break  across  the  Maryland  hills.  Then  be- 
fore long  the  mists  and  vapors  uprise  like  the  breath 
of  a  giant  army,  and  for  an  hour  or  two  one  is  re- 
minded of  a  November  morning  in  England.  But 
by  mid-forenoon  the  only  trace  of  the  obscurity  that 
remains  is  a  slight  haze,  and  the  day  is  indeed  a  sum- 
mons and  a  challenge  to  come  forth.  If  the  Octo- 
ber days  were  a  cordial  like  the  sub-acids  of  fruit, 
these  are  a  tonic  like  the  wine  of  iron.  Drink  deep 
or  be  careful  how  you  taste  this  December  vintage. 
The  first  sip  may  chill,  but  a  full  draught  warms  and 
invigorates.  No  loitering  by  the  brooks  or  in  the 
woods  now,  but  spirited,  rugged  walking  along  the 
public  highway.  The  sunbeams  are  welcome  now. 
They  seem  like  pure  electricity  —  like  friendly  and 
recuperating  lightning.  Are  we  led  to  think  elec- 
tricity abounds  only  in  summer,  when  we  see  in  the 


14  WINTER   SUNSHINE. 

storm-clouds  as  it  were,  the  veins  and  ore-beds  of  it  ? 
I  imagine  it  is  equally  abundant  in  winter,  and  more 
equable  and  better  tempered.  Who  ever  breasted 
a  snow-storm  without  being  excited  and  exhilarated, 
as  if  this  meteor  had  come  charged  with  latent  auroras 
of  the  North,  as  doubtless  it  has  ?  It  is  like  being 
pelted  with  sparks  from  a  battery.  Behold  the  frost- 
work on  the  pane  —  the  wild,  fantastic  limnings  and 
etchings,  can  there  be  any  doubt  but  this  subtle 
agent  has  been  here  ?  Where  is  it  not  ?  It  is  the 
life  of  the  crystal,  the  architect  of  the  flake,  the  fire 
of  the  frost,  the  soul  of  the  sunbeam.  This  crisp 
winter  air  is  full  of  it.  When  I  come  in  at  night 
after  an  all  day  tramp  I  am  charged  like  a  Leyden 
jar,  my  hair  crackles  and  snaps  beneath  the  comb 
like  a  cat's  back,  and  a  strange,  new  glow  diffuses  it- 
self through  my  system. 

It  is  a  spur  that  one  feels  at  this  season  more  than 
at  any  other.  How  nimbly  you  step  forth !  The 
woods  roar,  the  waters  shine,  and  the  hills  look  in- 
vitingly near.  You  do  not  miss  the  flowers  and  the 
songsters,  or  wish  the  trees  or  the  fields  any  different, 
or  heavens  any  nearer.  Every  object  pleases.  A 
rail  fence,  running  athwart  the  hills,  now  in  sunshine 
and  now  in  shadow  —  how  the  eye  lingers  upon  it ! 
Or  the  straight,  light-gray  trunks  of  the  trees,  where 
the  woods  have  recently  been  laid  open  by  a  road  or 
a  clearing,  how  curious  they  look,  and  as  if  surprised 
in  undress.  Next  year  they  will  begin  to  shoot  out 
branches  and  make  themselves  a  screen.  Or  the 


WINTER   SUNSHINE.  15 

farm  scenes  —  the  winter  barn-yards  littered  with 
husks  and  straw,  the  rough-coated  horses,  the  cattle 
sunning  themselves  or  walking  down  to  the  spring  to 
drink,  the  domestic  fowls  moving  about  —  there  is  a 
touch  of  sweet  homely  life  in  these  things  that  the 
winter  sun  enhances  and  brings  out.  Every  sign  of 
life  is  welcome  at  this  season.  I  love  to  hear  dogs 
bark,  hens  cackle,  and  boys  shout ;  one  has  no  pri- 
vacy with  Nature  now,  and  does  not  wish  to  seek 
her  in  nooks  and  hidden  ways.  She  is  not  at  home 
if  he  goes  there  ;  her  house  is  shut  up  and  her  hearth 
cold ;  only  the  sun  and  sky,  and  perchance  the  waters, 
wear  the  old  look,  and  to-day  we  will  make  love 
to  them,  and  they  shall  abundantly  return  it. 

Even  the  crows  and  the  buzzards  draw  the  eye 
fondly.  The  National  Capital  is  a  great  place  for 
buzzards,  and  I  make  the  remark  in  no  double  or 
allegorical  sense  either,  for  the  buzzards  1  mean  are 
black  and  harmless  as  doves,  though  perhaps  hardly 
dovelike  in  their  tastes.  My  vulture  is  also  a  bird  of 
leisure,  and  sails  through  the  ether  on  long  flexible 
pinions,  as  if  that  was  the  one  delight  of  his  life. 
Some  birds  have  wings  others  have  "pinions."  The 
buzzard  enjoys  this  latter  distinction.  There  is  some- 
thing in  the  sound  of  the  word  that  suggests  that 
easy,  dignified,  undulatory  movement.  He  does  not 
propel  himself  along  by  sheer  force  of  muscle,  after 
the  plebeian  fashion  of  the  crow  for  instance,  but 
progresses  by  a  kind  of  royal  indirection  that  puzzles 
the  eye.  Even  on  a  windy  winter  day  he  rides  the 


16  WINTER   SUNSHINE. 

vast  aerial  billows  as  placidly  as  ever,  rising  and  fall- 
ing as  he  comes  up  toward  you,  carving  his  way 
through  the  resisting  currents  by  a  slight  oscilla- 
tion to  the  right  and  left,  but  never  once  beating  the 
air  openly. 

This  superabundance  of  wing  power  is  very  un- 
equally distributed  among  the  feathered  races,  the 
hawks  and  vultures  having  by  far  the  greater  share 
of  it.  They  cannot  command  the  most  speed,  but 
their  apparatus  seems  the  most  delicate  and  con- 
summate. Apparently  a  fine  play  of  muscle,  a  subtle 
shifting  of  the  power  along  the  outstretched  wings,  a 
perpetual  loss  and  a  perpetual  recovery  of  the  equi- 
poise, sustains  them  and  bears  them  along.  With 
them  flying  is  a  luxury,  a  fine  art,  not  merely  a 
quicker  and  safer  means  of  transit  from  one  point  to 
another,  but  a  gift  so  free  and  spontaneous  that 
that  work  becomes  leisure  and  movement  rest.  They 
are  not  so  much  going  somewhere,  from  this  perch  to 
that,  as  they  are  abandoning  themselves  to  the  mere 
pleasure  of  riding  upon  the  air. 

And  it  is  beneath  such  grace  and  high-bred  leisure 
that  Nature  hides  in  her  creatures  the  occupation  of 
scavenger  and  carrion  eater ! 

But  the  worst  thing  about  the  buzzard  is  his 
silence.  The  crow  caws,  the  hawk  screams,  the 
eagle  barks,  but  the  buzzard  says  not  a  word.  So 
far  as  I  have  observed  he  has  no  vocal  powers  what- 
ever. Nature  dare  not  trust  him  to  speak.  In  his 
case  she  preserves  a  discreet  silence. 


WINTER   SUNSHINE.  17 

The  crow  may  not  hatffe  the  sweet  voice  which  the 
fox  in  his  flattery  attributed  to  him,  but  he  has  a 
good,  strong,  native  speech  nevertheless.  How  much 
character  there  is  in  it !  How  much  thrift  and  in- 
dependence !  Of  course  his  plumage  is  firm,  his  color 
decided,  his  wit  quick;  He  understands  you  at  once 
and  tells  you  so;  so  does  the  hawk  by  his  scorn- 
ful, defiant  whir-r-r-r-r.  Hardy,  happy  outlaws,  the 
crows,  how  I  love  them.  Alert,  social,  republican, 
always  able  to  look  out  for  themselves,  not  afraid  of 
the  cold  and  the  snow,  fishing  when  flesh  is  scarce  and 
stealing  when  other  resources  fail,  the  crow  is  a  char- 
acter I  would  not  willingly  miss  from  the  landscape. 
I  love  to  see  his  track  in  the  snow  or  the  mud,  and 
his  graceful  pedestrianism  about  the  brown  fields. 

He  is  no  interloper  but  has  the  air  and  manner  of 
being  thoroughly  at  home  and  in  rightful  possession 
of  the  land.  He  is  no  sentimentalist  like  some  of  the 
plaining,  disconsolate  song-birds,  but  apparently  is  al- 
ways in  good  health  and  good  spirits.  No  matter  who 
is  sick,  or  dejected,  or  unsatisfied,  or  what  the  weather 
is,  or  what  the  price  of  corn,  the  crow  is  well  and 
finds  life  sweet.  He  is  the  dusky  embodiment  of 
worldly  wisdom  and  prudence.  Then  he  is  one  of  Nat- 
ure's self-appointed  constables  and  greatly  magnifies 
his  office.  He  would  fain  arrest  every  hawk  or  owl 
or  grimalkin  that  ventures  abroad.  I  have  known  a 
posse  of  them  to  beset  the  fox  and  cry  "  thief"  till 
Reynard  hid  himself  for  shame.  Do  I  say  the  fox 
flattered  the  crow  when  he  told  him  he  had  a  sweet 


18  WINTER  SUNSHINE. 

voice  ?  Yet  one  of  the  mosfr  musical  sounds  in  nature 
proceeds  from  the  crow.  All  the  crow  tribe  from  the 
blue  jay  up  are  capable  of  certain  low  ventriloquial 
notes  that  have  peculiar  cadence  and  charm.  I  often 
hear  the  crow  indulging  in  his,  in  winter,  and  am  re- 
minded of  the  sound  of  the  •  dulcimer.  The  bird 
stretches  up  and  exerts  himself  like  a  cock  in  the  act 
of  crowing  and  gives  forth  a  peculiarly  clear,  vitreous 
sound  that  is  sure  to  arrest  and  reward  your  atten- 
tion. This  is  no  doubt  the  song  the  fox  begged  to 
be  favored  with,  as  in  delivering  it  the  crow  must 
inevitably  let  drop  the  piece  of  meat. 

The  crow  in  his  purity,  I  believe,  is  seen  and  heard 
only  in  the  North.  Before  you  reach  the  Potomac 
there  is  an  infusion  of  a  weaker  element,  the  fish- 
crow,  whose  helpless  feminine  call  contrasts  strongly 
with  the  hearty  masculine  caw  of  the  original  Simon. 

In  passing  from  crows  to  colored  men  I  hope  I  am 
not  guilty  of  any  disrespect  toward  the  latter.  In 
my  walks  about  Washington,  both  winter  and  sum- 
mer, colored  men  are  about  the  only  pedestrians  I 
meet ;  and  I  meet  them  everywhere,  in  the  fields 
and  in  the  woods  and  in  the  public  road,  swinging 
along  with  that  peculiar,  rambling,  elastic  gait,  taking 
advantage  of  the  short  cuts  and  threading  the  country 
with  paths  and  byways.  I  doubt  if  the  colored  man 
can  compete  with  his  white  brother  as  a  walker  ;  his 
foot  is  too  flat  and  the  calves  of  his  legs  too  small,  but 
he  is  certainly  the  most  picturesque  traveler  to  be 
seen  on  the  road.  He  bends  his  knees  more  than  the 


WINTER   SUNSHINE.  19 

white  man,  and  oscillates  more  to  and  fro,  or  from 
side  to  side.  The  imaginary  line  which  his  head  de- 
scribes is  full  of  deep  and  long  undulations.  Even 
the  boys  and  young  men  sway  as  if  bearing  a  burden. 

Along  the  fences  and  by  the  woods  I  come  upon 
their  snares,  dead-falls,  and  rude  box-traps.  The 
freedman  is  a  sucessful  trapper  and  hunter  and  has 
by  nature  an  insight  into  these  things.  I  frequently 
see  him  in  market  or  on  his  way  thither  with  a  tame 
'possum  clinging  timidly  to  his  shoulders,  or  a  young 
coon  or  fox  led  by  a  chain.  Indeed  the  colored  man 
behaves  precisely  like  the  rude  unsophisticated  peas- 
ant that  he  is,  and  there  is  fully  as  much  virtue  in 
him,  using  the  word  in  its  true  sense,  as  in  the  white 
peasant ;  indeed,  much  more  than  in  the  poor  whites 
who  grew  up  by  his  side,  while  there  is  often  a  be- 
nignity and  a  depth  of  human  experience  and  sym- 
pathy about  some  of  these  dark  faces  that  comes  home 
to  one  like  the  best  one  sees  in  art  or  reads  in- books. 

One  touch  of  Nature  makes  all  the  world  akin,  and 
there  is  certainly  a  touch  of  Nature  about  the  colored 
man  :  indeed,  I  had  almost  said,  of  Anglo-Saxon  nat- 
ure. They  have  the  quaintness  and  homeliness  of 
the  simple  English  stock.  I  seem  to  see  my  grand- 
father and  grandmother  in  the  ways  and  doings  of 
these  old  "  uncles  "  and  "  aunties ;  "  indeed  the  lesson 
comes  nearer  home  than  even  that,  for  I  seem  to  see 
myself  in  them,  and  what  is  more,  I  see  that  they 
see  themselves  in  me,  and  that  neither  party  has 
much  to  boast  of. 


20  WINTER   SUNSHINE. 

The  negro  is  a  plastic  human  creature,  and  is  thor- 
oughly domesticated,  aud  thoroughly  anglicized.  The 
same  cannot  be  said  of  the  Indian  for  instance,  be- 
tween us  and  whom  there  can  never  exist  any  fellow- 
ship, any  community  of  feeling  or  interest;  or  is  there 
any  doubt  but  the  Chinaman  will  always  remain  to 
us  the  same  impenetrable  mystery  he  has  been  from 
the  first  ? 

But  there  is  no  mystery  about  the  negro,  and  he 
touches  the  Anglo-Saxon  at  more  points  than  the  lat- 
ter is  always  willing  to  own,  taking  as  kindly  and 
naturally  to  all  his  customs  and  usages,  yea,  to  all 
his  prejudices  and  superstitions  as  if  to  the  manor 
born.  The  colored  population  in  very  many  respects 
occupies  the  same  position  as  that  occupied  by  our 
rural  populations  a  generation  or  two  ago,  seeing 
signs  and  wonders,  haunted  by  the  fear  of  ghosts  and 
hobgoblins,  believing  in  witchcraft,  charms,  the  evil 
eye,  etc.  In  religious  matters,  also,  they  are  on  the 
same  level,  and  about  the  only  genuine  shouting 
Methodists  that  remain  are  to  be  found  in  the  colored 
churches.  Indeed,  I  fear  the  negro  tries  to  ignore 
or  forget  himself  as  far  as  possible,  and  that  he  would 
deem  it  felicity  enough  to  play  second  fiddle  to  the 
white  man  all  his  days.  He  liked  his  master,  but  he 
likes  the  Yankee  better,  not  because  he  regards  him 
as  his  deliverer,  but  mainly  because  the  two-handed 
thrift  of  the  Northerner,  his  varied  and  wonderful 
ability,  completely  captivates  the  imagination  of  the 
black  man,  just  learning  to  shift  for  himself. 


WINTER   SUNSHINE.  21 

How  far  he  has  caught  or  is  capable  of  being  im- 
bued with  the  Yankee  spirit  of  enterprise  and  in- 
dustry, remains  to  be  seen.  In  some  things  he  has 
already  shown  himself  an  apt  scholar.  I  notice,  for 
instance,  he  is  about  as  industrious  an  office-seeker  as 
the  most  patriotic  among  us,  and  that  he  learns  with 
amazing  ease  and  rapidity  all  the  arts  and  wiles  of 
the  politicians.  He  is  versed  in  parades,  mass  meet- 
ings, caucuses,  and  will  soon  shine  on  the  stump.  I 
observe,  also,  that  he  is  not  far  behind  us  in  the  ob- 
servance of  the  fashions,  and  that  he  is  as  good  a 
church-goer,  theatre-goer,  and  pleasure-seeker  gen- 
erally, as  his  means  will  allow. 

As  a  boot-black  or  news-boy  he  is  an  adept  in  all 
the  tricks  of  the  trade,  and  as  a  fast  young  man  about 
town  among  his  kind,  he  is  worthy  his  white  pro- 
totype ;  the  swagger,  the  impertinent  look,  the  coarse 
remark,  the  loud  laugh,  are  all  in  the  best  style. 
As  a  lounger  and  starer  also,  on  the  street  corners  of 
a  Sunday  afternoon,  he  has  taken  his  degree. 

On  the  other  hand,  I  know  cases  among  our  col- 
ored brethren,  plenty  of  them,  of  conscientious  and 
well-directed  effort  and  industry  in  the  worthiest 
fields,  in  agriculture,  in  trade,  in  the  mechanic  arts, 
that  show  the  colored  man  has  in  him  all  the  best 
rudiments  of  a  citizen  of  the  States. 

Lest  my  winter  sunshine  appear  to  have  too  many 
dark  rays  in  it,  buzzards,  crows,  and  colored  men,  I 
hasten  to  add  the  brown  and  neutral  tints,  and  may 
be  a  red  ray  can  be  extracted  from  some  of  these 


22  WINTER   SUNSHINE. 

hard,  smooth,  sharp  gritted  roads  that  radiate  from 
the  National  Capital.  Leading  out  of  Washington 
there  are  several  good  roads  that  invite  the  pedes- 
trian. There  is  the  road  that  leads  west  or  north- 
west from  Georgetown,  the  Tenallytown  road,  the 
very  sight  of  which,  on  a  sharp,  lustrous  winter  Sun- 
day, makes  the  feet  tingle.  Where  it  cuts  through  a 
hill  or  high  knoll,  it  is  so  red  it  fairly  glows  in  the 
sunlight.  I'll  warrant  you  will  kindle,  and  your 
own  color  will  mount  if  you  resign  yourself  to  it.  It 
will  conduct  you  to  the  wild  and  rocky  scenery  of 
the  upper  Potomac,  to  Great  Falls,  and  on  to  Har- 
per's Ferry,  if  your  courage  holds  out.  Then  there 
is  the  road  that  leads  north  over  Meridian  Hill, 
across  Piny  Branch,  and  on  through  the  wood  of 
Crystal  Springs,  to  Fort  Stevens,  and  so  into  Mary- 
land. This  is  the  proper  route  for  an  excursion  in 
the  spring  to  gather  wild  flowers,  or  in  the  fall  for  a 
nutting  expedition,  as  it  lays  open  some  noble  woods 
and  a  great  variety  of  charming  scenery ;  or  for  a 
musing  moonlight  saunter,  say  in  December,  when 
the  Enchantress  has  folded  and  folded  the  world  in 
her  web,  it  is  by  all  means  the  course  to  take.  Your 
stafi0  rings  on  the  hard  ground,  the  road,  a  misty  white 
belt,  gleams  and  vanishes  before  you,  the  woods  are 
cavernous  and  still,  the  fields  lie  in  a  lunar  trance, 
and  you  will  yourself  return  fairly  mesmerized  by 
the  beauty  of  the  scene. 

Or  you  can   bend  your  steps  eastward  over  the 
Eastern  Branch,  up  Good  Hope  Hill  and  on  till  you 


WINTER   SUNSHINE.  23 

strike  the  Marlborough  pike,  as  a  trio  of  us  did  that 
cold  February  Sunday  we  walked  from  Washington 
to  Pumpkintown  and  back. 

A  short  sketch  of  this  pilgrimage  is  a  fair  sample 
of  these  winter  walks. 

The  delight  I  experienced  in  making  this  new  ac- 
quisition to  my  geography  was,  of  itself,  sufficient  to 
atone  for  any  aches  or  weariness  I  may  have  felt. 
The  mere  fact  that  one  may  walk  from  "Washington 
to  Pumpkintown,  was  a  discovery  I  had  been  all 
these  years  in  making.  I  had  walked  to  Slago,  and 
to  the  Northwest  Branch,  and  had  made  the  Falls  of 
the  Potomac  in  a  circuitous  route  of  ten  miles,  com- 
ing suddenly  upon  the  river  in  one  of  its  wildest 
passes ;  but  I  little  dreamed  all  the  while  that  there, 
in  a  wrinkle  (or  shall  I  say  furrow  ?)  of  the  Mary- 
land hills,  almost  visible  from  the  outlook  of  the 
bronze  squaw  on  the  dome  of  the  Capitol,  and  just 
around  the  head  of  Oxen  Run,  lay  Pumpkintown. 

The  day  was  cold  but  the  sun  was  bright,  and  the 
foot  took  hold  of  those  hard,  dry,  gritty  Maryland 
roads  with  the  keenest  relish.  How  the  leaves  of 
the  laurel  glistened !  The  distant  oak  woods  sug- 
gested gray-blue  smoke,  while  the  recesses  of  the 
pines  looked  like  the  lair  of  Night.  Beyond  the 
District  limits  we  struck  the  Marlborough  pike, 
which,  round  and  hard  and  white,  held  squarely  to 
the  east  and  was  visible  a  mile  ahead.  Its  friction 
brought  up  the  temperature  amazingly  and  spurred 
the  pedestrians  into  their  best  time.  As  I  trudged 
along,  Thoreau's  lines  came  naturally  to  mind :  — 


24  WINTER   SUNSHINE. 

"  When  the  spring  stirs  my  blood 

With  the  instinct  of  travel, 
I  can  get  enough  gravel 

On  the  old  Marlborough  road." 

Cold  as  the  day  was  (many  degrees  below  freez- 
ing), I  heard  and  saw  bluebirds,  and  as  we  passed 
along  every  sheltered  tangle  and  overgrown  field  or 
lane  swarmed  with  snow-birds  and  sparrows  —  the 
latter  mainly  Canada  or  tree-sparrows,  with  a  sprink- 
ling of  the  song,  and,  may  be,  one  or  two  other  varie- 
ties. The  birds  are  all  social  and  gregarious  in 
winter,  and  seem  drawn  together  by  common  instinct. 
Where  you  find  one,  you  will  not  only  find  others  of 
the  same  kind,  but  also  several  different  kinds.  The 
regular  winter  residents  go  in  little  bands,  like  a  well- 
organized  pioneer  corps  —  the  jays  and  woodpeckers 
in  advance,  doing  the  heavier  work ;  the  nuthatches 
next,  more  lightly  armed  ;  and  the  creepers  and  king- 
lets with  their  slender  beaks  and  microscopic  eyes, 
last  of  all.1 

Now  and  then,  among  the  gray-and-brown  tints, 
there  was  a  dash  of  scarlet  —  the  cardinal  grossbeak, 
whose  presence  was  sufficient  to  enliven  any  scene. 
In  the  leafless  trees,  as  a  ray  of  sunshine  fell  upon 
him,  he  was  visible  a  long  way  off,  glowing  like  a 
crimson  spar  —  the  only  bit  of  color  in  the  whole 
landscape. 

Maryland   is   here   rather  a  level,  unpicturesque 

1  It  seems  to  me  this  is  a  borrowed  observation,  but  I  do  not 
know  whom  to  credit  it  to. 


WINTER   SUNSHINE.  25 

country  —  the  gaze  of  the  traveler  bounded,  at  no 
great  distance,  by  oak  woods,  with  here  and  there  a 
dark  line  of  pine.  "We  saw  few  travelers,  passed  a 
ragged  squad  or  two  of  colored  boys  and  girls,  and 
met  some  colored  women  on  their  way  to  or  from 
church,  perhaps.  Never  ask  a  colored  person  —  at 
least  the  crude,  rustic  specimens  —  any  question  that 
involves  a  memory  of  names,  or  any  arbitrary  signs ; 
you  will  rarely  get  a  satisfactory  answer.  If  you 
could  speak  to  them  in  their  own  dialect,  or  touch  the 
right  spring  in  their  minds,  you  would,  no  doubt,  get 
the  desired  information.  They  are  as  local  in  their 
notions  and  habits  as  the  animals,  and  go  on  much 
the  same  principles,  as,  no  doubt,  we  all  do,  more  or 
less.  I  saw  a  colored  boy  come  into  a  public  office, 
one  day,  and  ask  to  see  a  man  with  red  hah-;  the 
name  was  utterly  gone  from  him.  The  man  had  red 
whiskers,  which  was  as  near  as  he  had  come  to  the 
mark.  Ask  your  washer-woman  what  street  she 
lives  on,  or  where  such  a  one  has  moved  to,  and  the 
chances  are  that  she  cannot  tell  you,  except  that  it  is 
a  "  right  smart  distance  "  this  way  or  that,  or  near 
Mr.  So-and-so,  or  by  such  and  such  a  place,  describ- 
ing some  local  feature.  I  love  to  amuse  myself,  when 
walking  through  the  market,  by  asking  the  old 
aunties,  and  the  young  aunties,  too,  the  names  of 
their  various  "  yarbs."  It  seems  as  if  they  must  trip 
on  the  simplest  names.  Bloodroot  they  generally 
call  "  grubroot ;  "  trailing  arbutus  goes  by  the  names 
of  "  troling  "  arbutus,  "  training  arbuty-flower,"  and 


26  WINTER   SUNSHINE. 

ground  "  ivory  ;  "  in  Virginia,  they  call  woodchucks 
"  moonacks." 

On  entering  Pumpkintown  —  a  cluster  of  five  or 
six  small,  whitewashed  block-houses,  toeing  squarely 
on  the  highway  —  the  only  inhabitant  we  saw  was  a 
small  boy,  who  was  as  frank  and  simple  as  if  he  had 
lived  on  pumpkins  and  marrow-squashes  all  his  days. 

Half  a  mile  farther  on,  we  turned  to  the  right  into 
a  characteristic  Southern  road — -.a  way  entirely  un- 
kempt, and  wandering  free  as  the  wind ;  now  fading 
out  into  a  broad  field  ;  now  contracting  into  a  narrow 
track  between  hedges ;  anon  roaming  with  delight- 
ful abandon  through  swamps  and  woods,  asking  no 
leave  and  keeping  no  bounds.  About  two  o'clock 
we  stopped  in  an  opening  in  a  pine  wood,  and  ate 
our  lunch.  We  had  the  good  fortune  to  hit  upon  a 
charming  place.  A  wood-chopper  had  been  there, 
and  let  in  the  sunlight  full  and  strong ;  and  the  white 
chips,  the  newly-piled  wood,  and  the  mounds  of  green 
boughs,  were  welcome  features,  and  helped  also  to 
keep  off  the  wind  that  would  creep  through  under 
the  pines.  The  ground  was  soft  and  dry,  with  a  car- 
pet an  inch  thick  of  pine-needles,  and  with  a  fire,  less 
for  warmth  than  to  make  the  picture  complete,  we 
ate  our  bread  and  beans  with  the  keenest  satisfaction, 
and  with  a  relish  that  only  the  open  air  can  give. 

A  fire,  of  course  —  an  encampment  in  the  woods 
at  this  season  without  a  fire  would  be  like  leaving 
Hamlet  out  of  the  play.  A  smoke  is  your  standard, 
your  flag  ;  it  defines  and  locates  your  camp  at  once  ; 


WINTER   SUNSHINE.  27 

you  are  an  interloper  until  you  have  made  a  fire  ; 
then  you  take  possession  ;  then  the  trees  and  rocks 
seem  to  look  upon  you  more  kindly,  and  you  look 
more  kindly  upon  them.  As  one  opens  his  budget, 
so  he  opens  his  heart  by  a  fire.  Already  something 
has  gone  out  from  you,  and  comes  back  as  a  faint 
reminiscence  and  home  feeling  in  the  air  and  place. 
One  looks  out  upon  the  crow  or  the  buzzard  that 
sails  by  as  from  his  own  fireside.  It  is  not  I  that  is  a 
wanderer  and  a  stranger  now ;  it  is  the  crow  and  the 
buzzard.  The  chickadees  were  silent  at  first;  but 
now  they  approach  by  little  journeys,  as  if  to  make 
our  acquaintance.  The  nuthatches,  also,  cry  "  Yank  ! 
yank  !  "  in  no  inhospitable  tones  ;  and  those  purple 
finches  there  in  the  cedars  —  are  they  not  stealing 
our  berries  ? 

How  one  lingers  about  a  fire  under  such  circum- 
stances, loath  to  leave  it,  poking  up  the  sticks,  throw- 
ing in  the  burnt  ends,  adding  another  branch  and  yet 
another,  and  looking  back  as  he  turns  to  go  to  catch 
one  more  glimpse  of  the  smoke  going  up  through 
the  trees  !  I  reckon  it  is  some  remnant  of  the  prim- 
itive man,  which  we  all  carry  about  with  us.  He  has 
not  yet  forgotten  his  wild,  free  life,  his  arboreal  habi- 
tations, and  the  sweet-bitter  times  he  had  in  those 
long-gone  ages.  With  me,  he  wakes  up  directly  at 
the  smell  of  smoke,  of  burning  branches. in  the  open 
air ;  and  all  his  old  love  of  fire  and  dependence  upon  / 
it,  in  the  camp  or  the  cave,  comes  freshly  to  mind. 

On   resuming  our  march,   we    filed   off  along  a 


28  WINTER   SUNSHINE. 

charming  wood-path  —  a  regular  little  tunnel  through 
the  dense  pines,  carpeted  with  silence,  and  allowing 
us  to  look  nearly  the  whole  length  of  it  through  its 
soft  green  twilight  out  into  the  open  sunshine  of  the 
fields  beyond.  A  pine  wood  in  Maryland  or  in  Vir- 
ginia is  quite  a  different  thing  from  a  pine  wood  in 
Maine  or  Minnesota  —  the  difference,  in  fact,  be- 
tween yellow  pine  and  white.  The  former,  as  it 
grows  hereabout,  is  short  and  scrubby,  with  branches 
nearly  to  the  ground,  and  looks  like  the  dwindling 
remnant  of  a  greater  race. 

Beyond  the  woods,  the  path  led  us  by  a  colored 
man's  habitation  —  a  little,  low  frame  house,  on  a 
knoll,  surrounded  by  the  quaint  devices  and  rude 
makeshifts  of  these  quaint  and  rude  people.  A  few 
poles  stuck  in  the  ground,  clapboarded  with  cedar- 
boughs  and  corn-stalks,  and  supporting  a  roof  of  the 
same,  gave  shelter  to  a  rickety  one-horse  wagon  and 
some  farm  implements.  Near  this  there  was  a  large, 
compact  tent,  made  entirely  of  corn-stalks,  with,  for 
door,  a  bundle  of  the  same,  in  the  dry,  warm,  nest- 
like  interior  of  which  the  husking  of  the  corn  crop 
seemed  to  have  taken  place.  A  few  rods  farther  on, 
we  passed  through  another  humble  door-yard,  musi- 
cal with  dogs  and  dusky  with  children.  We  crossed 
here  the  outlying  fields  of  a  large,  thrifty,  well-kept- 
looking  farm  with  a  showy,  highly  ornamental  frame 
house  in  the  centre.  There  was  even  a  park  with 
deer,  and  among  the  gayly  painted  out-buildings  I 
noticed  a  fancy  dove-cot,  with  an  immense  flock  of 


WINTER   SUNSHINE.  29 

doves  circling  above  it,  —  some  whiskey-dealer  from 
the  city,  we  were  told,  trying  to  take  the  poison  out 
of  his  money  by  agriculture. 

We  next  passed  through  some  woods,  when  we 
emerged  into  a  broad,  sunlit,  fertile-looking  valley, 
called  Oxen  Run.  We  stooped  down  and  drank  of 
its  clear  white-pebbled  stream,  in  the  veritable  spot  I 
suspect  where  the  oxen  do.  There  were  clouds  of 
birds  here  on  the  warm  slopes,  with  the  usual  sprink- 
ling along  the  bushy  margin  of  the  stream  of  scarlet 
grossbeaks.  The  valley  of  Oxen  Run  has  many 
good-looking  farms,  with  old  picturesque  houses,  and 
loose  rambling  barns,  such  as  artists  love  to  put  into 
pictures. 

But  it  is  a  little  awkward  to  go  east.  It  always 
seems  left-handed.  I  think  this  is  the  feeling  of  all 
walkers,  and  that  Thoreau's  experience  in  this  re- 
spect was  not  singular.  The  great  magnet  is  the 
sun,  and  we  follow  him.  I  notice  that  people  lost  in 
the  woods  work  to  the  westward.  When  one  comes 
out  of  his  house  and  asks  himself  "  Which  way  shall 
I  walk  ?  "  and  looks  up  and  down  and  around  for  a 
sign  or  a  token,  does  he  not  nine  times  out  of  ten 
turn  to  the  west  ?  He  inclines  this  way  as  surely  as 
the  willow  wand  berrds  toward  the  water.  There  is 
something  more  genial  and  friendly  in  this  direc- 
tion. 

Occasionally  in  winter  I  experience  a  southern  in- 
clination, and  cross  Long  Bridge  and  rendezvous  for 
the  day  in  some  old  earth-work  on  the  Virginia  hills. 


30  WINTER   SUNSHINE. 

The  roads  are  not  so  inviting  in  this  direction,  but 
the  line  of  old  forts  with  rabbits  burrowing  in  the 
bomb-proofs,  and  a  magazine,  or  officers'  quarters 
turned  into  a  cow  stable  by  colored  squatters,  form 
an  interesting  feature.  But.  whichever  way  I  go  I 
am  glad  I  came.  All  roads  lead  up  to  the  Jerusalem 
the  walker  seeks.  There  is  everywhere  the  vigorous 
and  masculine  winter  air,  and  the  impalpable  suste- 
nance the  mind  draws  from  all  natural  forms. 


THE  EXHILARATIONS   OF  THE 
ROAD. 


THE  EXHILARATIONS  OF  THE  ROAD. 

Afoot  and  light-hearted  I  take  to  the  open  road.  —  WHITMAN. 

OCCASIONALLY  on  the  sidewalk,  amid  the  dapper, 
swiftly-moving,  high-heeled  boots  and  gaiters,  I  catch 
a  glimpse  of  the  naked  human  foot.  Nimbly  it  scuffs 
along,  the  toes  spread,  the  sides  flatten,  the  heel  pro- 
tudes  ;  it  grasps  the  curbing,  or  bends  to  the  form  of 
the  uneven  surfaces,  —  a  thing  sensuous  and  alive, 
that  seems  to  take  cognizance  of  whatever  it  touches 
or  passes.  How  primitive  and  uncivil  it  looks  in  such 
company,  —  a  real  barbarian  in  the  parlor.  We  are 
so  unused  to  the  human  anatomy,  to  simple,  un- 
adorned nature,  that  it  looks  a  little  repulsive  ;  but  it 
is  beautiful  for  all  that.  Though  it  be  a  black  foot 
and  an  unwashed  foot,  it  shall  be  exalted.  It  is  a 
thing  of  life  amid  leather,  a  free  spirit  amid  cramped, 
a  wild  bird  amid  caged,  an  athlete  amid  consumptives. 
It  is  the  symbol  of  my  order,  the  Order  of  Walkers. 
That  unhampered,  vitally  playing  piece  of  anatomy  is 
the  type  of  the  pedestrian,  man  returned  to  first  princi- 
ples, in  direct  contact  and  intercourse  with  the  earth 
and  the  elements,  his  faculties  unsheathed,  his  mind 
plastic,  his  body  toughened,  his  heart  light,  his  soul 
3 


34     THE  EXHILARATIONS  OF  THE  ROAD. 

dilated :  while  those  cramped  and  distorted  members 
in  the  calf  and  kid  are  the  unfortunate  wretches 
doomed  to  carriages  and  cushions. 

I  am  not  going  to  advocate  the  disuse  of  boots  and 
shoes,  or  the  abandoning  of.  the  improved  modes  of 
travel ;  but  I  am  going  to  brag  as  lustily  as  I  can  on 
behalf  of  the  pedestrian,  and  show  how  all  the  shin- 
ing angels  second  and  accompany  the  man  who  goes 
afoot,  while  all  the  dark  spirits  are  ever  looking  out 
for  a  chance  to  ride. 

When  I  see  the  discomforts  that  able-bodied  Amer- 
ican men  will  put  up  with  rather  than  go  a  mile  or 
half  a  mile  on  foot,  the  abuses  they  will  tolerate  and 
encourage,  crowding  the  street  car  on  a  little  fall  in 
the  temperature  or  the  appearance  of  an  inch  or  two 
of  snow,  packing  up  to  overflowing,  dangling  to  the 
straps,  treading  on  each  other's  toes,  breathing  each 
other's  breaths,  crushing  the  women  and  children, 
hanging  by  tooth  and  nail  to  a  square  inch  of  the  plat- 
form, imperiling  their  limbs  and  killing  the  horses, 
—  I  think  the  commonest  tramp  in  the  street  has 
good  reason  to  felicitate  himself  on  his  rare  privilege 
of  going  afoot.  Indeed,  a  race  that  neglects  or  de- 
spises this  primitive  gift,  that  fears  the  touch  of  the 
soil,  that  has  no  foot-paths,  no  community  of  ownership 
in  the  land  which  they  imply,  that  warns  off  the 
walker  as  a  trespasser,  that  knows  no  way  but  the 
highway,  the  carriage-way,  that  forgets  the  stile,  the 
foot-bridge,  that  even  ignores  the  rights  of  the  pedes- 
trian in  the  public  road,  providing  no  escape  for  him 


THE  EXHILARATIONS  OF  THE  ROAD.     35 

but  in  the  ditch  or  up  the  bank,  is  in  a  fair  way  to 
far  more  serious  degeneracy. 

Shakespeare  makes  the  chief  qualification  of  the 
walker  a  merry  heart :  — 

"Jog  on,  jog  on,  the  foot-path  way, 

And  merrily  hent  the  stile-a  ; 
A  merry  heart  goes  all  the  day, 
Your  sad  tires  in  a  mile-a." 

The  human  body  is  a  steed  that  goes  freest  and 
longest  under  a  light  rider,  and  the  lightest  of  all  riders 
is  a  cheerful  heart.  Your  sad,  or  morose,  or  embit- 
tered, or  preoccupied  heart  settles  heavily  into  the 
saddle,  and  the  poor  beast,  the  body,  breaks  down 
the  first  mile.  Indeed,  the  heaviest  thing  in  the 
world  is  a  heavy  heart.  Next  to  that  the  most  bur- 
densome to  the  walker  is  a  heart  not  in  perfect  sym- 
pathy and  accord  with  the  body  —  a  reluctant  or  un- 
willing heart.  The  horse  and  rider  must  not  only 
both  be  willing  to  go  the  same  way,  but  the  rider  must 
lead  the  way  and  infuse  his  own  lightness  and  eager- 
ness into  the  steed.  Herein  is  no  doubt  our  trouble 
and  one  reason  of  the  decay  of  the  noble  art  in  this 
country.  We  are  unwilling  walkers.  We  are  not 
innocent  and  simple-hearted  enough  to  enjoy  a  walk. 
We  have  fallen  from  that  state  of  grace  which  capacity 
to  enjoy  a  walk  implies.  It  cannot  be  said  that  as  a 
people  we  are  so  positively  sad,  or  morose,  or  melan- 
cholic as  that  we  are  vacant  of  that  sportiveness  and 
surplusage  of  animal  spirits  that  characterized  our  an- 
cestors, and  that  springs  from  full  and  harmonious 


36     THE  EXHILARATIONS  OF  THE  ROAD. 

life,  —  a  sound  heart  in  accord  with  a  sound  body. 
A  man  must  invest  himself  near  at  hand  and  in  com- 
mon things,  and  be  content  with  a  steady  and  moder- 
ate return,  if  he  would  know  the  blessedness  of  a 
cheerful  heart  and  the  sweetness  of  a  walk  over  the 
round  earth.  This  is  a  lesson  the  American  has  yet 
to  learn,  —  capability  of  amusement  on  a  low  key. 
He  expects  rapid  and  extraordinary  returns.  He 
would  make  the  very  elemental  laws  pay  usury.  He 
has  nothing  to  invest  in  a  walk;  it  is  too  slow,  too 
cheap.  We  crave  the  astonishing,  the  exciting,  the 
far  away,  and  do  not  know  the  highways  of  the  gods 
when  we  see  them,  —  always  a  sign  of  the  decay  of 
the  faith  and  simplicity  of  man. 

If  I  say  to  my  neighbor,  "  Come  with  me,  I  have 
great  wonders  to  show  you,"  he  pricks  up  his  ears  and 
comes  forthwith ;  but  when  I  take  him  on  the  hills 
under  the  full  blaze  of  the  sun,  or  along  the  country 
road,  our  footsteps  lighted  by  the  moon  and  stars,  and 
say  to  him,  "  Behold,  these  are  the  wonders,  these  are 
the  circuits  of  the  gods,  this  we  now  tread  is  a  morn- 
ing star,"  he  feels  defrauded,  and  as  if  I  had  played  him 
a  trick.  And  yet  nothing  less  than  dilatation  and  en- 
thusiasm like  this  is  the  badge  of  the  master  walker. 

If  we  are  not  sad,  we  are  careworn,  hurried,  discon- 
tented, mortgaging  the  present  for  the  promise  of 
the  future.  If  we  take  a  walk,  it  is  as  we  take  a  pre- 
scription, with  about  the  same  relish  and  with  about 
the  same  purpose ;  and  the  more  the  fatigue  the 
greater  our  faith  in  the  virtue  of  the  medicine. 


THE  EXHILARATIONS  OF  THE  ROAD.     37 

Of  those  gleesome  saunters  over  the  hills  in  spring, 
or  those  sallies  of  the  body  in  winter,  those  excursions 
into  space  when  the  foot  strikes  fire  at  every  step, 
when  the  air  tastes  like  a  new  and  finer  mixture, 
when  we  accumulate  force  and  gladness  as  we  go 
along,  when  the  sight  of  objects  by  the  roadside  and 
of  the  fields  and  woods  pleases  more  than  pictures 
or  than  all  the  art  in  the  world,  —  those  ten  or 
twelve  mile  dashes  that  are  but  the  wit  and  effluence 
of  the  corporeal  powers,  —  of  such  diversion  and 
open  road  entertainment,  I  say,  most  of  us  know  very 
little. 

I  notice  with  astonishment  that  at  our  fashionable 
watering-places  nobody  walks ;  that  of  all  those  vast 
crowds  of  health-seekers  and  lovers  of  country  air, 
you  can  never  catch  one  in  the  fields  or  woods,  or 
guilty  of  trudging  along  the  country  road  with  dust 
on  his  shoes  and  sun-tan  on  his  hands  and  face.  The 
sole  amusement  seems  to  be  to  eat  and  dress  and  sit 
about  the  hotels  and  glare  at  each  other.  The  men 
look  bored,  the  women  look  tired,  and  all  seem  to 
sigh,  "  O  Lord !  what  shall  we  do  to  be  happy  and 
not  be  vulgar?"  Quite  different  from  our  British 
cousins  across  the  water,  who  have  plenty  of  amuse- 
ment and  hilarity,  spending  most  of  the  time  at 
their  watering-places  in  the  open  air,  strolling,  pic- 
nicking, boating,  climbing,  briskly  walking,  appar- 
ently with  little  fear  of  sun-tan  or  of  compromising 
their  "  gentility." 

It  is  indeed  astonishing  with  what  ease  and  hilarity 


38     THE  EXHILARATIONS  OF  THE  ROAD. 

the  English  walk.  To  an  American  it  seems  a  kind 
of  infatuation.  When  Dickens  was  in  this  country 
I  imagine  the  aspirants  to  the  honor  of  a  walk  with 
him  were  not  numerous.  In  a  pedestrian  tour  of 
England  by  an  American,  I  read  that  "  after  break- 
fast with  the  Independent  minister,  he  walked  with 
us  for  six  miles  out  of  town  upon  our  road.  Three 
little  boys  and  girls,  the  youngest  six  years  old,  also 
accompanied  us.  They  were  romping  and  rambling 
about  all  the  while,  and  their  morning  walk  must 
have  been  as  much  as  fifteen  miles ;  but  they  thought 
nothing  of  it,  and  when  we  parted  were  apparently 
as  fresh  as  when  they  started,  and  very  loath  to 
return." 

I  fear,  also,  the  American  is  becoming  disqualified 
for  the  manly  art  of  walking,  by  a  falling  off  in  the 
size  of  his  foot.  He  cherishes  and  cultivates  this  part 
of  his  anatomy,  and  apparently  thinks  his  taste  and 
good  breeding  are  to  be  inferred  from  its  diminutive 
size.  A  small,  trim  foot,  well  booted  or  gaitered,  is 
the  national  vanity.  How  we  stare  at  the  big  feet 
of  foreigners,  and  wonder  what  may  be  the  price  of 
leather  in  those  countries,  and  where  all  the  aristo- 
cratic blood  is,  that  these  plebeian  extremities  so  pre- 
dominate. If  we  were  admitted  to  the  confidences  of 
the  shoemaker  to  Her  Majesty  or  to  His  Eoyal  High- 
ness, no  doubt  we  would  modify  our  views  upon  this 
latter  point,  for  a  truly  large  and  royal  nature  is  never 
stunted  in  the  extremities;  a  little  foot  never  yet 
supported  a  great  character. 


THE  EXHILARATIONS  OF  THE  ROAD.     39 

It  is  said  that  Englishmen  when  they  first  come  to 
this  country  are  for  some  time  under  the  impression 
that  American  women  all  have  deformed  feet,  they 
are  so  coy  of  them  and  so  studiously  careful  to  keep 
them  hid.  That  there  is  an  astonishing  difference 
between  the  women  of  the  two  countries  in  this  re- 
spect, every  traveler  can  testify ;  and  that  there  is 
a  difference  equally  astonishing  between  the  pedes- 
trian habits  and  capabilities  of  the  rival  sisters,  is  also 
certain. 

The  English  pedestrian,  no  doubt,  has  the  advan- 
tage of  us  in  the  matter  of  climate ;  for,  notwithstand- 
ing the  traditional  gloom  and  moroseness  of  English 
skies,  they  have  in  that  country  none  of  those  relaxing, 
sinking,  enervating  days,  of  which  we  have  so  many 
here,  and  which  seem  especially  trying  to  the  female 
constitution  —  days  which  withdraw  all  support  from 
the  back  and  loins,  and  render  walking  of  all  things 
burdensome.  Theirs  is  a  climate  of  which  it  has  been 
said  that  "  it  invites  men  abroad  more  days  in  the  year 
and  more  hours  in  the  day  than  that  of  any  other 
country." 

Then  their  land  is  threaded  with  paths  which  invite 
the  walker,  and  which  are  scarcely  less  important  than 
the  highways.  I  heard  of  a  surly  nobleman  near  Lon- 
don who  took  it  into  his  head  to  close  a  foot-path  that 
passed  through  his  estate  near  his  house,  and  open 
another  one  a  little  farther  off.  The  pedestrians  ob- 
jected ;  the  matter  got  into  the  courts,  and  after  pro- 
tracted litigation  the  aristocrat  was  beaten.  The  path 


40     THE  EXHILARATIONS  OF  THE  ROAD. 

could  not  be  closed  or  moved.  The  memory  of  man 
ran  not  to  the  time  when  there  was  not  a  foot-path 
there,  and  every  pedestrian  should  have  the  right  of 
way  there  still. 

I  remember  the  pleasure  I  had  in  the  path  that  con- 
nects Stratford-on-Avon  with  Shottery,  Shakespeare's 
path  when  he  went  courting  Anne  Hathaway.  By 
the  king's  highway  the  distance  is  some  farther,  so 
there  is  a  well-worn  path  along  the  hedgerows  and 
through  the  meadows  and  turnip-patches.  The  trav- 
eler in  it  has  the  privilege  of  crossing  the  railroad 
track,  an  unsual  privilege  in  England,  and  one  de- 
nied to  the  lord  in  his  carriage,  who  must  either  go 
over  or  under  it.  (It  is  a  privilege,  is  it  not,  to  be 
allowed  the  forbidden,  even  if  it  be  the  privilege  of 
being  run  over  by  the  engine  ?)  In  strolling  over  the 
South  Downs,  too,  I  was  delighted  to  find  that  where 
the  hill  was  steepest  some  benefactor  of  the  order  of 
walkers  had  made  notches  in  the  sward,  so  that  the 
foot  'could  bite  the  better  and  firmer  ;  the  path  became 
a  kind  of  stairway,  which  I  have  no  doubt  the  plow- 
man respected. 

When  you  see  an  English  country  church  with- 
drawn, secluded,  out  of  the  reach  of  wheels,  standing 
amid  grassy  graves  and  surrounded  by  noble  trees,  ap- 
proached by  paths  and  shaded  lanes,  you  appreciate 
more  than  ever  this  beautiful  habit  of  the  people. 
Only  a  race  that  knows  how  to  use  its  feet,  and  holds 
foot-paths  sacred,  could  put  such  a  charm  of  privacy 
and  humility  into  such  a  structure.  I  think  I  should 


THE  EXHILARATIONS  OF  THE  ROAD.     41 

be  tempted  to  go  to  church  myself  if  I  saw  all  my 
neighbors  starting  off  across  the  fields  or  along  paths 
that  led  to  such  charmed  spots,  and  was  sure  I  would 
not  be  jostled  or  run  over  by  the  rival  chariots  of  the 
worshipers  at  the  temple  doors.  I  think  this  is  what 
ails  our  religion  ;  humility  and  devoutness  of  heart 
leave  one  when  he  lays  by  his  walking  shoes  and 
walking  clothes,  and  sets  out  for  church  drawn  by 
something. 

Indeed,  I  think  it  would  be  tantamount  to  an  as- 
tonishing revival  of  religion  if  the  people  would  all 
walk  to  church  on  Sunday  and  walk  home  again. 
Think  how  the  stones  would  preach  to  them  by  the 
wayside ;  how  their  benumbed  minds  would  warm  up 
beneath  the  friction  of  the  gravel;  how  their  vain 
and  foolish  thoughts,  their  desponding  thoughts,  their 
besetting  demons  of  one  kind  and  another,  would  drop 
behind  them,  unable  to  keep  up  or  to  endure  the  fresh 
air.  They  would  walk  away  from  their  ennui,  their 
worldly  cares,  their  uncharitableness,  their  pride  of 
dress :  for  these  devils  always  want  to  ride,  while  the 
simple  virtues  are  never  so  happy  as  when  on  foot 
Let  us  walk  by  all  means  ;  but  if  we  will  ride,  get  an 
ass. 

Then  the  English  claim  that  they  are  a  more  hearty 
and  robust  people  than  we  are.  It  is  certain  they 
are  a  plainer  people,  have  plainer  tastes,  dress  plainer, 
build  plainer,  speak  plainer,  keep  closer  to  facts,  wear 
broader  shoes  and  coarser  clothes,  place  a  lower  esti- 
mate on  themselves,  etc.  —  all  of  which  traits  favor 


42     THE  EXHILARATIONS  OF  THE  ROAD. 

pedestrian  habits.  The  English  grandee  is  not  con- 
fined to  his  carriage ;  but  if  the  American  aristocrat 
leaves  his,  he  is  ruined.  Oh,  the  weariness,  the  emp- 
tiness, the  plotting,  the  seeking  rest  and  finding 
none,  that  goes  by  in  the  carriages  !  while  your  pe- 
destrian is  always  cheerful,  alert,  refreshed,  with  his 
heart  in  his  hand  and  his  hand  free  to  all.  He  looks 
down  upon  nobody ;  he  is  on  the  common  level. 
His  pores  are  all  open,  his  circulation  is  active,  his 
digestion  good.  His  heart  is  not  cold,  nor  his  facul- 
ties asleep.  He  is  the  only  real  traveler  ;  he  alone 
tastes  the  "  gay,  fresh  sentiment  of  the  road."  He  is 
not  isolated,  but  one  with  things,  with  the  farms  and 
industries  on  either  hand.  The  vital,  universal  cur- 
rents play  through  him.  He  knows  the  ground  is 
alive ;  he  feels  the  pulses  of  the  wind,  and  reads  the 
mute  language  of  things.  His  sympathies  are  all 
aroused ;  his  senses  are  continually  reporting  mes- 
sages to  his  mind.  Wind,  frost,  rain,  heat,  cold,  are 
something  to  him.  He  is  not  merely  a  spectator  of 
the  panorama  of  nature,  but  a  participator  in  it.  He 
experiences  the  country  he  passes  through  —  tastes 
it,  feels  it,  absorbs  it ;  the  traveler  in  his  fine  carriage 
sees  it  merely.  This  gives  the  fresh  charm  to  that 
class  of  books  that  may  be  called  "  Views  Afoot," 
and  to  the  narratives  of  hunters,  naturalists,  explor- 
ing parties,  etc.  The  walker  does  not  need  a  large 
territory.  When  you  get  into  a  railway  car  you 
want  a  continent,  the  man  in  his  carriage  requires  a 
township ;  but  a  walker  like  Thoreau  finds  as  much 


THE  EXHILARATIONS  OF  THE  ROAD.     43 

and  more  along  the  shores  of  Walden  Pond.  The 
former,  as  it  were,  has  merely  time  to  glance  at  the 
headings  of  the  chapters,  while  the  latter  need  not 
miss  a  line,  and  Thoreau  reads  between  the  lines. 
Then  the  walker  has  the  privilege  of  the  fields,  the 
woods,  the  hills,  the  by-ways.  The  apples  by  the 
roadside  are  for  him,  and  the  berries,  and  the  spring 
of  water,  and  the  friendly  shelter ;  and  if  the  weather 
is  cold,  he  eats  the  frost  grapes  and  the  persimmons, 
or  even  the  white  meated  turnip,  snatched  from  the 
field  he  passed  through,  with  incredible  relish. 

Afoot  and  in  the  open  road,  one  has  a  fair  start  in 
life  at  last.  There  is  no  hindrance  now.  Let  him 
put  his  best  foot  forward.  He  is  on  the  broadest 
human  plane.  This  is  on  the  level  of  all  the  great 
laws  and  heroic  deeds.  From  this  platform  he  is  eli- 
gible to  any  good  fortune.  He  was  sighing  for  the 
golden  age  ;  let  him  walk  to  it.  Every  step  brings 
him  nearer.  The  youth  of  the  world  is  but  a  few 
day's  journey  distant.  Indeed,  I  know  persons  who 
think  they  have  walked  back  to  that  fresh  aforetime 
of  a  single  bright  Sunday  in  autumn  or  early  spring. 
Before  noon  they  felt  its  airs  upon  their  cheeks,  and 
by  nightfall,  on  the  banks  of  some  quiet  stream,  or 
along  some  path  in  the  wood,  or  on  some  hill-top, 
aver  they  have  heard  the  voices  and  felt  the  wonder 
and  the  mystery  that  so  enchanted  the  early  races 
of  men. 

I  think  if  I  could  walk  through  a  country  I  should 
not  only  see  many  things  and  have  adventures  that  I 


44     THK  EXHILARATIONS  OF  THE  ROAD. 

would  otherwise  miss,  but  that  I  should  come  into  re- 
lations with  that  country  at  first  hand,  and  with  the 
men  and  women  in  it,  in  a  way  that  would  afford  the 
deepest  satisfaction.  Hence  I  envy  the  good  fortune 
of  all  walkers,  and  feel  like  joining  myself  to  every 
tramp  that  comes  along.  I  am  jealous  of  the  clergy- 
man I  read  about  the  other  day  who  footed  it  from 
Edinburgh  to  London,  as  poor  Effie  Deans  did,  car- 
rying her  shoes  in  her  hand  most  of  the  way,  and 
over  the  ground  that  rugged  Ben  Jonson  strode, 
larking  it  to  Scotland,  so  long  ago.  I  read  with  long- 
ing of  the  pedestrian  feats  of  college  youths,  so  gay 
and  light-hearted,  with  their  coarse  shoes  on  their  feet 
and  their  knapsacks  on  their  backs.  It  would  have 
been  a  good  draught  of  the  rugged  cup  to  have 
walked  with  Wilson  the  ornithologist,  deserted  by 
his  companions,  from  Niagara  to  Philadelphia  through 
the  snows  of  winter.  I  almost  wish  that  I  had  been 
born  to  the  career  of  a  German  mechanic,  that  I 
might  have  had  that  delicious  adventurous  year  of 
wandering  over  my  country  before  I  settled  down  to 
work.  I  think  how  much  richer  and  firmer  grained 
life  would  be  to  me  if  I  could  journey  afoot  through 
Florida  and  Texas,  or  follow  the  windings  of  the 
Platte  or  the  Yellowstone,  or  stroll  through  Oregon, 
or  browse  for  a  season  about  Canada.  In  the  bright 
inspiring  days  of  autumn  I  only  want  the  time  and 
the  companion  to  walk  back  to  the  natal  spot,  the 
family  nest,  across  two  States  and  into  the  mountains 
of  a  third.  What  adventures  we  would  have  by  the 


THE  EXHILAEATIONS  OF  THE  ROAD.     45 

way,  what  hard  pulls,  what  prospects  from  hills,  what 
spectacles  we  would  behold  of  night  and  day,  what 
passages  with  dogs,  what  glances,  what  peeps  into 
windows,  what  characters  we  should  fall  in  with,  and 
how  seasoned  and  hardy  we  should  arrive  at  our  des- 
tination ! 

For  companion  I  should  want  a  veteran  of  the 
war !  Those  marches  put  something  into  him  I 
like.  Even  at  this  distance  his  mettle  is  but  little 
softened.  As  soon  as  he  gets  warmed  up  it  all  comes 
back  to  him.  He  catches  your  step  and  away  you 
go,  a  gay,  adventurous,  half  predatory  couple.  How 
quickly  he  falls  into  the  old  ways  of  jest  and  anecdote 
and  song !  You  may  have  known  him  for  years  with- 
out having  heard  him  hum  an  air,  or  more  than  cas- 
ually revert  to  the  subject  of  his  experience  during 
the  war.  You  have  even  questioned  and  cross-ques- 
tioned him  without  firing  the  train  you  wished.  But 
get  him  out  on  a  vacation  tramp,  and  you  can  walk 
it  all  out  of  him.  By  the  camp  fire  at  night  or  swing- 
ing along  the  streams  by  day,  song,  anecdote,  advent- 
ure, come  to  the  surface,  and  you  wonder  how  your 
companion  has  kept  silent  so  long. 

It  is  another  proof  of  how  walking  brings  out  the 
true  character  of  a  man.  The  devil  never  yet  asked 
his  victims  to  take  a  walk  with  him.  You  will  not 
be  long  in  finding  your  companion  out.  All  dis- 
guises will  fall  away  from  him.  As  his  pores  open 
his  character  is  laid  bare.  His  deepest  and  most 
private  self  will  come  to  the  top.  It  matters  little 


46     THE  EXHILARATIONS  OF  THE  ROAD. 

whom  you  ride  with,  so  he  be  not  a  pickpocket ;  for 
both  of  you  will,  very  likely,  settle  down  closer  and 
firmer  in  your  reserve,  shaken  down  like  a  measure 
of  corn  by  the  jolting  as  the  journey  proceeds.  But 
walking  is  a  more  vital  copartnership;  the  relation  is 
a  closer  and  more  sympathetic  one,  and  you  do  not 
feel  like  walking  ten  paces  with  a  stranger  without 
speaking  to  him. 

Hence  the  fastidiousness  of  the  professional  walker 
in  choosing  or  admitting  a  companion,  and  hence  the 
truth  of  a  remark  of  Emerson  that  you  will  generally 
fare  better  to  take  your  dog  than  to  invite  your 
neighbor.  You  cur-dog  is  a  true  pedestrian,  and 
your  neighbor  is  very  likely  a  small  politician.  The 
dog  enters  thoroughly  into  the  spirit  of  the  enter- 
prise ;  he  is  not  indifferent  or  preoccupied  ;  he  is  con- 
stantly sniffing  adventure,  laps  at  every  spring,  looks 
upon  every  field  and  wood  as  a  new  world  to  be  ex- 
plored, is  ever  on  some  fresh  trail,  knows  something 
important  will  happen  a  little  farther  on,  gazes  with 
the  true  wonder-seeing  eyes,  whatever  the  spot  or 
whatever  the  road  finds  it  good  to  be  there — in 
short,  is  just  that  happy,  delicious,  excursive  vaga- 
bond that  touches  one  at  so  many  points,  and  whose 
human  prototype  in  a  companion  robs  miles  and 
leagues  of  half  their  power  and  fatigue. 

Persons  who  find  themselves  spent  in  a  short  walk 
to  the  market  or  the  post-office,  or  to  do  a  little  shop- 
ping, wonder  how  it  is  that  their  pedestrian  friends 
can  compass  so  many  weary  miles  and  not  fall  down 


THE  EXHILARATIONS   OF   THE   EOAD.  47 

from  sheer  exhaustion ;  ignorant  of  the  fact  that  the 
walker  is  a  kind  of  projectile  that  drops  far  or  near 
according  to  the  expansive  force  of  the  motive  that 
set  it  in  motion,  and  that  it  is  easy  enough  to  regulate 
the  charge  according  to  the  distance  to  be  traversed. 
If  I  am  loaded  to  carry  only  one  mile  and  am  com- 
pelled to  walk  three,  I  generally  feel  more  fatigue 
than  if  I  had  walked  six  under  the  proper  impetus  of 
preadj usted  resolution.  In  other  words,  the  will  or 
corporeal  mainspring,  whatever  it  be,  is  capable  of  be- 
ing wound  up  to  different  degrees  of  tension,  so  that 
one  may  walk  all  clay  nearly  as  easy  as  half  that  time 
if  he  is  prepared  beforehand.  He  "knows  his  task, 
and  he  measures  and  distributes  his  powers  accord- 
ingly. It  is  for  this  reason  that  an  unknown  road  is 
always  a  long  road.  We  cannot  cast  the  mental  eye 
along  it  and  see  the  end  from  the  beginning.  We 
are  fighting  in  the  dark,  and  cannot  take  the  measure 
of  our  foe.  Every  step  must  be  preordained  and 
provided  for  in  the  mind.  Hence  also  the  fact  that 
to  vanquish  one  mile  in  the  woods  seems  equal  to 
compassing  three  in  the  open  country.  The  furlongs 
are  ambushed,  and  we  magnify  them. 

Then,  again,  how  annoying  to  be  told  it  is  only 
five  miles  to  the  next  place  when  it  is  really  eight  or 
ten  !  We  fall  short  nearly  half  the  distance,  and  are 
compelled  to  urge  and  roll  the  spent  ball  the  rest  of 
the  way. 

In  such  a  case  walking  degenerates  from  a  fine  art 
to  a  mechanic  art ;  we  walk  merely  ;  to  get  over 


48     THE  EXHILARATIONS  OF  THE  KOAD. 

the  ground  becomes  the  one  serious  and  engrossing 
thought ;  whereas  success  in  walking  is  not  to  let 
your  right  foot  know  what  your  left  foot  doeth. 
Your  heart  must  furnish  such  music  that  in  keeping 
time  to  it  your  feet  will  carry  you  around  the  globe 
without  knowing  it.  The  walker  I  would  describe 
takes  no  note  of  distance ;  his  walk  is  a  sally,  a  bon- 
mot,  an  unspoken  jeu  d 'esprit ;  the  ground  is  his  butt, 
his  provocation ;  it  furnishes  him  the  resistance  his 
body  craves ;  he  rebounds  upon  it,  he  glances  off  and 
returns  again,  and  uses  it  gayly  as  his  tool. 

I  do  not  think  I  exaggerate  the  importance  or  the 
charms  of  pedestrianism,'  or  our  need  as  a  people  to 
cultivate  the  art.  I  think  it  would  tend  to  soften  the 
national  manners,  to  teach  us  the  meaning  of  leisure, 
to  acquaint  us  with  the  charms  of  the  open  air,  to 
strengthen  and  foster  the  tie  between  the  race  and 
the  land.  No  one  else  looks  out  upon  the  world  so 
kindly  and  charitable  as  the  pedestrian  ;  no  one  else 
gives  and  takes  so  much  from  the  country  he  passes 
through.  Next  to  the  laborer  in  the  fields,  the 
walker  holds  the  closest  relation  to  the  soil  ;  and  he 
holds  a  closer  and  more  vital  relation  to  Nature  be- 
cause he  is  freer  and  his  mind  more  at  leisure. 

Man  takes  root  at  his  feet,  and  at  best  he  is  no 
more  than  a  potted  plant  in  his  house  or  carriage,  till 
he  has  established  communication  with  the  soil  by  the 
loving  and  magnetic  touch  of  his  soles  to  it.  Then 
the  tie  of  association  is  born ;  then  spring  those  in- 
visible fibres  and  rootlets  through  which  character 


THE  EXHILARATIONS  OF  THE  ROAD.     49 

comes  to  smack  of  the  soil,  and  which  makes  a  man 
kindred  to  the  spot  of  earth  he  inhabits. 

The  roads  and  paths  you  have  walked  along  in 
summer  and  winter  weather,  the  fields  and  hills  which 
you  have  looked  upon  in  lightness  and  gladness  of 
heart,  where  fresh  thoughts  have  come  into  your 
mind,  or  some  noble  prospect  has  opened  before  you, 
and  especially  the  quiet  ways  where  you  have  walked 
in  sweet  converse  with  your  friend,  pausing  under  the 
trees,  drinking  at  the  spring  —  henceforth  they  are 
not  the  same  ;  a  new  charm  is  added  ;  those  thoughts 
spring  there  perennial,  your  friend  walks  there  for- 
ever. 

We  have  produced  some  good  walkers  and  saun- 
terers,  and  some  noted  climbers  ;  but  as  a  staple  rec- 
reation, as  a  daily  practice,  the  mass  of  the  people 
dislike  and  despise  walking.  Thoreau  said  he  was  a 
good  horse,  but  a  poor  roadster.  I  chant  the  virtues 
of  the  roadster  as  well.  I  sing  of  the  sweetness  of 
gravel,  good  sharp  quartz-grit.  It  is  the  proper  con- 
diment for  the  sterner  seasons,  and  many  a  human 
gizzard  would  be  cured  of  half  its  ills  by  a  suitable 
daily  allowance  of  it.  I  think  Thoreau  himself 
would  have  profited  immensely  by  it.  His  diet  was 
too  exclusively  vegetable.  A  man  cannot  live  on 
grass  alone.  If  one  has  been  a  lotus-eater  all  sum- 
mer, he  must  turn  gravel-eater  in  the  fall  and  winter. 
Those  who  have  tried  it  know  that  gravel  possesses 
an  equal  though  an  opposite  charm.  It  spurs  to  ac- 
tion. The  foot  tastes  it  and  henceforth  rests  not. 
4 


50     THE  EXHILARATIONS  OF  THE  ROAD. 

The  joy  of  moving  and  surmounting,  of  attrition  and 
progression,  the  thirst  for  space,  for  miles  aud  leagues 
of  distance,  for  sights  and  prospects,  to  cross  mount- 
ains and  thread  rivers,  and  defy  frost,  heat,  snow, 
danger,  difficulties,  seizes  it ;  and  from  that  day  forth 
its  possessor  is  enrolled  in  the  noble  army  of  walkers. 


THE  SNOW-WALKERS. 


THE  SNOW-WALKERS. 

HE  who  marvels  at  the  beauty  of  the  world  in 
summer  will  find  equal  cause  for  wonder  and  admira- 
tion in  winter.  It  is  true  the  pomp  and  the  pageantry 
are  swept  away,  but  the  essential  elements  remain,  — 
the  clay  and  the  night,  the  mountain  and  the  valley, 
the  elemental  play  and  succession  and  the  perpetual 
presence  of  the  infinite  sky.  In  winter  the  stars 
seem  to  have  rekindled  their  fires,  the  moon  achieves 
a  fuller  triumph,  and  the  heavens  wear  a  look  of  a 
more  exalted  simplicity.  Summer  is  more  wooing 
and  seductive,  more  versatile  and  human,  appeals  to 
the  affections  and  the  sentiments,  and  fosters  inquiry 
and  the  art  impulse.  Winter  is  of  a  more  heroic 
cast,  and  addresses  the  intellect.  The  severe  studies 
and  disciplines  come  easier  in  winter.  One  imposes 
larger  tasks  upon  himself,  and  is  less  tolerant  of  his 
own  weaknesses. 

The  tendinous  part  of  the  mind,  so  to  speak,  is 
more  developed  in  winter ;  the  fleshy,  in  summer.  I 
should  say  winter  had  given  the  bone  and  sinew  to 
Literature,  summer  the  tissues  and  blood. 

The  simplicity  of  winter  has  a  deep  moral.     The 


54  THE   SNOW-WALKERS. 

return  of  Nature,  after  such  a  career  of  splendor  and 
prodigality,  to  habits  so  simple  and  austere,  is  not 
lost  either  upon  the  head  or  the  heart.  It  is  the 
philosopher  coming  back  from  the  banquet  and  the 
wine  to  a  cup  of  water  and  a  crust  of  bread. 

And  then  this  beautiful  masquerade  of  the  ele- 
ments, —  the  novel  disguises  our  nearest  friends  put 
on !  Here  is  another  rain  and  another  dew,  water 
that  will  not  flow,  nor  spill,  nor  receive  the  taint  of 
an  unclean  vessel.  And  if  we  see  truly,  the  same  old 
beneficence  and  willingness  to  serve  lurk  beneath  all. 

Look  up  at  the  miracle  of  the  falling  snow,  —  the 
air  a  dizzy  maze  of  whirling,  eddying  flakes,  noise- 
lessly transforming  the  world,  the  exquisite  crystals 
dropping  in  ditch  and  gutter,  and  disguising  in  the 
same  suit  of  spotless  livery  all  objects  upon  which 
they  fall.  How  novel  and  fine  the  first  drifts  !  The 
old,  dilapidated  fence  is  suddenly  set  off  with  the 
most  fantastic  ruffles,  scalloped  and  fluted  after  an 
unheard-of  fashion  !  Looking  down  a  long  line  of 
decrepit  stone-wall,  in  the  trimming  of  which  the 
wind  had  fairly  run  riot,  I  saw,  as  for  the  first  time, 
what  a  severe  yet  master  artist  old  Winter  is.  Ah, 
a  severe  artist !  How  stern  the  woods  look,  dark 
and  cold  and  as  rigid  against  the  horizon  as  iron  ! 

All  life  and  action  upon  the  snow  have  an  added 
emphasis  and  significance.  Every  expression  is  un- 
derscored. Summer  has  few  finer  pictures  than  this 
winter  one  of  the  farmer  foddering  his  cattle  from  a 
stack  upon  the  clean  snow,  —  the  movement,  the 


THE   SNOW-WALKERS.  55 

sharply-defined  figures,  the  great  green  flakes  of  hay, 
the  long  file  of  patient  cows,  —  the  advance  just  ar- 
riving and  pressing  eagerly  for  the  choicest  morsels, 
and  the  bounty  and  providence  it  suggests.  Or  the 
chopper  in  the  woods  —  the  prostrate  tree,  the  white 
new  chips  scattered  about,  his  easy  triumph  over  the 
cold,  coat  hanging  to  a  limb,  and  the  clear,  sharp  ring 
of  his  axe.  The  woods  are  rigid  and  tense,  keyed 
up  by  the  frost,  and  resound  like  a  stringed  instru- 
ment. Or  the  road-breakers,  sallying  forth  with  oxen 
and  sleds  in  the  still,  white  world,  the  day  after  the 
storm,  to  restore  the  lost  track  and  demolish  the  be- 
leaguering drifts. 

All  sounds  are  sharper  in  winter ;  the  air  transmits 
better.  At  night  I  hear  more  distinctly  the  steady 
roar  of  the  North  Mountain.  In  summer  it  is  a  sort 
of  complacent  purr,  as  the  breezes  stroke  down  its 
sides  ;  but  in  winter  always  the  same  low,  sullen 
growl. 

A  severe  artist !  No  longer  the  canvas  and  the 
pigments,  but  the  marble  and  the  chisel.  When  the 
nights  are  calm  and  the  moon  full,  I  go  out  to  gaze 
upon  the  wonderful  purity  of  the  moonlight  and  the 
snow.  The  air  is  full  of  latent  fire,  and  the  cold 
warms  me  —  after  a  different  fashion  from  that  of  the 
kitchen  stove.  The  world  lies  about  me  in  a  "  trance 
of  snow."  The  clouds  are  pearly  and  iridescent,  and 
seem  the  farthest  possible  remove  from  the  condition 
of  a  storm,  —  the  ghosts  of  clouds,  the  indwelling 
beauty  freed  from  all  dross.  I  see  the  hills,  bulging 


56  THE   SNOW-WALKERS. 

with  great  drifts,  lift  themselves  up  cold  and  white 
against  the  sky,  the  black  lines  of  fences  here  and 
there  obliterated  by  the  depth  of  the  snow.  Pres- 
ently a  fox  barks  away  up  next  the  mountain,  and  I 
imagine  I  can  almost  see  him  sitting  there,  in  his 
furs,  upon  the  illuminated  surface,  and  looking  down 
in  my  direction.  As  I  listen,  one  answers  him  from 
behind  the  woods  in  the  valley.  What  a  wild  winter 
sound,  —  wild  and  weird,  up  among  the  ghostly  hills. 
Since  the  wolf  has  ceased  to  howl  upon  these  mount- 
ains, and  the  panther  to  scream,  there  is  nothing  to 
be  compared  with  it.  So  wild  !  I  get  up  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  night  to  hear  it.  It  is  refreshing  to  the 
ear,  and  one  delights  to  know  that  such  wild  creatures 
are  among  us.  At  this  season  Nature  makes  the 
most  of  every  throb  of  life  that  can  withstand  her 
severity.  How  heartily  she  indorses  this  fox  !  In 
what  bold  relief  stand  out  the  lives  of  all  walkers  of 
the  snow !  The  snow  is  a  great  tell-tale,  and  blabs 
as  effectually  as  it  obliterates.  I  go  into  the  woods, 
and  know  all  that  has  happened.  I  cross  the  fields, 
and  if  only  a  mouse  has  visited  his  neighbor,  the  fact 
is  chronicled. 

The  red  fox  is  the  only  species  that  abounds  in 
my  locality ;  the  little  gray  fox  seems  to  prefer  a 
more  rocky  and  precipitous  country,  and  a  less  vigor- 
ous climate ;  the  cross  fox  is  occasionally  seen,  and 
there  are  traditions  of  the  silver  gray  among  the  old- 
est hunters.  But  the  red  fox  is  the  sportsman's 
prize,  and  the  only  fur-bearer  worthy  of  note  in  these 


THE   SNOW-WALKERS.  57 

mountains.1  I  go  out  in  the  morning,  after  a  fresh 
fall  of  snow,  and  see  at  all  points  where  he  has 
crossed  the  road.  Here  he  has  leisurely  passed 
within  rifle-range  of  the  house,  evidently  reconnoi- 
tring the  premises,  with  an  eye  to  the  hen-roost. 
That  clear,  sharp  track,  —  there  is  no  mistaking  it 
for  the  clumsy  foot-print  of  a  little  dog.  All  his 
wilclness  and  agility  are  photographed  in  it.  Here 
he  has  taken  fright,  or  suddenly  recollected  an  en- 
gagement, and  in  long,  graceful  leaps,  barely  touch- 
ing the  fence,  has  gone  careering  up  the  hill  as  fleet 
as  the  wind. 

The  wild,  buoyant  creature,  how  beautiful  he  is  ! 
I  had  often  seen  his  dead  carcass,  and,  at  a  distance, 
had  witnessed  the  hounds  drive  him  across  the  upper 
fields  ;  but  the  thrill  and  excitement  of  meeting  him 
in  his  wild  freedom  in  the  woods  were  unknown  to 
me,  till,  one  cold  winter  day,  drawn  thither  by  the 
baying  of  a  hound,  I  stood  near  the  summit  of  the 
mountain,  waiting  a  renewal  of  the  sound,  that  I 
might  determine  the  course  of  the  dog  and  choose 
my  position,  —  stimulated  by  the  ambition  of  all 
young  Nimrods,  to  bag  some  notable  game.  Long  I 
waited,  and  patiently,  till,  chilled  and  benumbed,  I 
was  about  to  turn  back,  when,  hearing  a  slight  noise, 
I  looked  up  and  beheld  a  most  superb  fox,  loping 
along  with  inimitable  grace  and  ease,  evidently  dis- 
turbed, but  not  pursued  by  the  hound,  and  so  ab- 
sorbed in  his  private  meditations  that  he  failed  to  see 
l  A  spur  of  the  Catskills. 


58  THE   SNOW-WALKERS. 

me,  though  I  stood  transfixed  with  amazement  and 
admiration,  not  ten  yards  distant.  I  took  his  meas- 
ure at  a  glance,  —  a  large  male,  with  dark  legs,  and 
massive  tail  tipped  with  white,  —  a  most  magnifi- 
cent creature  ;  but  so  astonished  and  fascinated  was 
I  by  this  sudden  appearance  and  matchless  beauty, 
that  not  till  I  had  caught  the  last  glimpse  of  him, 
as  he  disappeared  over  a  knoll,  did  I  awake  to  my 
duty  as  a  sportsman,  and  realize  what  an  opportunity 
to  distinguish  myself  I  had  unconsciously  let  slip.  I 
clutched  my  gun,  half  angrily,  as  if  it  was  to  blame, 
and  went  home  out  of  humor  with  myself  and  all  fox- 
kind.  But  I  have  since  thought  better  of  the  expe- 
rience, and  concluded  that  I  bagged  the  game  after 
all.  the  best  part  of  it,  and  fleeced  Reynard  of  some- 
thing more  valuable  than  his  fur,  without  his  knowl- 


This  is  thoroughly  a  winter  sound,  —  this  voice  of 
the  hound  upon  the  mountain,  —  and  one  that  is 
music  to  many  ears.  The  long  trumpet-like  bay, 
heard  for  a  mile  or  more,  —  now  faintly  back  to  the 
deep  recesses  of  the  mountain,  —  now  distinct,  but 
still  faint,  as  the  hound  comes  over  some  prominent 
point,  and  the  wind  favors,  —  anon  entirely  lost  in 
the  gully,  —  then  breaking  out  again  much  nearer, 
and  growing  more  and  more  pronounced  as  the  dog 
approaches,  till,  when  he  comes  around  the  brow  of 
the  mountain,  directly  above  you,  the  barking  is  loud 
and  sharp.  On  he  goes  along  the  northern  spur,  his 
voice  rising  and  sinking  as  the  wind  and  lay  of  the 
ground  modify  it,  till  lost  to  hearing. 


THE   SNOW-WALKERS.  59 

The  fox  usually  keeps  half  a  mile  ahead,  regulating 
his  speed  by  that  of  the  hound,  occasionally  pausing  a 
moment  to  divert  himself  with  a  mouse,  or  to  contem- 
plate the  landscape,  or  to  listen  for  his  pursuer.  If 
the  hound  press  him  too  closely,  he  leads  off  from 
mountain  to  mountain,  and  so  generally  escapes  the 
hunter ;  but  if  the  pursuit  be  slow,  he  plays  about 
some  ridge  or  peak,  and  falls  a  prey,  though  not  an 
easy  one,  to  the  experienced  sportsman. 

A  most  spiriting  and  excited  chase  occurs  when  the 
farm-dog  gets  close  upon  one  in  the  open  field,  as 
sometimes  happens  in  the  early  morning.  The  fox 
relies  so  confidently  upon  his  superior  speed,  that  I 
imagine  he  half  tempts  the  dog  to  the  race.  But  if 
the  dog  be  a  smart  one,  and  their  course  lies  down 
hill,  over  smooth  ground,  Reynard  must  put  his  best 
foot  forward ;  and  then,  sometimes,  suffer  the  igno- 
miny of  being  run  over  by  his  pursuer,  who,  how- 
ever, is  quite  unable  to  pick  him  up,  owing  to  the 
speed.  But  when  they  mount  the  hill,  or  enter  the 
woods,  the  superior  nimbleness  and  agility  of  the  fox 
tell  at  once,  and  he  easily  leaves  the  dog  far  in  his 
rear.  For  a  cur  less  than  his  own  size  he  manifests 
little  fear,  especially  if  the  two  meet  alone,  remote 
from  the  house.  In  such  cases,  I  have  seen  first  one 
turn  tail,  then  the  other. 

A  novel  spectacle  often  occurs  in  summer,  when  the 
female  has  young.  You  are  rambling  on  the  mount- 
ain, accompanied  by  your  dog,  when  you  are  startled 
by  that  wild,  half-threatening  squall,  and  in  a  moment 


60  THE   SNOW -WALKERS. 

perceive  your  dog,  with  inverted  tail,  and  shame  and 
confusion  in  his  looks,  sneaking  toward  you,  the  old 
fox  but  a  few  rods  in  his  rear.  You  speak  to  him 
sharply,  when  he  bristles  up,  turns  about,  and,  bark- 
ing, starts  off  vigorously,  as  if  to  wipe  out  the  dis- 
honor ;  but  in  a  moment  comes  sneaking  back  more 
abashed  than  ever,  and  owns  himself  unworthy  to  be 
called  a  dog.  The  fox  fairly  shames  him  out  of  the 
woods.  The  secret  of  the  matter  is  her  sex,  though 
her  conduct,  for  the  honor  of  the  fox  be  it  said,  seems 
to  be  prompted  only  by  solicitude  for  the  safety  of 
her  young. 

One  of  the  most  notable  features  of  the  fox  is  his 
large  and  massive  tail.  Seen  running  on  the  snow, 
at  a  distance,  his  tail  is  quite  as  conspicuous  as  his 
body ;  and,  so  far  from  appearing  a  burden,  seems  to 
contribute  to  his  lightness  and  buoyancy.  It  softens 
the  outline  of  his  movements,  and  repeats  or  contin- 
ues to  the  eye  the  ease  and  poise  of  his  carriage. 
But,  pursued  by  the  hound  on  a  wet,  thawy  day  it 
often  becomes  so  heavy  and  bedraggled  as  to  prove 
a  •  serious  inconvenience,  and  compels  him  to  take 
refuge  in  his  den.  He  is  very  loath  to  do  this  ;  both 
his  pride  and  the  traditions  of  his  race  stimulate  him 
to  run  it  out,  and  win  by  fair  superiority  of  wind  and 
speed ;  and  only  a  wound  or  a  heavy  and  moppish 
tail  will  drive  him  to  avoid  the  issue  in  this  manner. 

To  learn  his  surpassing  shrewdness  and  cunning, 
attempt  to  take  him  with  a  trap.  Rogue  that  he  is, 
he  always  suspects  some  trick,  and  one  must  be  more 


THE   SNOW-WALKERS.  61 

of  a  fox  than  he  is  himself  to  overreach  him.  At 
first  sight  it  would  appear  easy  enough.  With  ap- 
parent indifference  he  crosses  your  path,  or  walks  in 
your  footsteps  in  the  field,  or  travels  along  the  beaten 
highway,  or  lingers  in  the  vicinity  of  stacks  and  re- 
mote barns.  Carry  the  carcass  of  a  pig,  or  a  fowl,  or 
a  dog,  to  a  distant  field  in  midwinter,  and  in  a  few 
nights  his  tracks  cover  the  snow  about  it. 

The  inexperienced  country  youth,  misled  by  this 
seeming  carelessness  of  Reynard,  suddenly  conceives 
a  project  to  enrich  himself  with  fur,  and  wonders  that 
the  idea  has  not  occurred  to  him  before,  and  to  others. 
I  knew  a  youthful  yeoman  of  this  kind,  who  imag- 
ined he  had  found  a  mine  of  wealth  on  discovering 
on  a  remote  side-hill,  between  two  woods,  a  dead 
porker,  upon  which  it  appeared  all  the  foxes  of  the 
neighborhood  had  nightly  banqueted.  The  clouds 
were  burdened  with  snow ;  and  as  the  first  flakes 
commenced  to  eddy  down,  he  set  out,  trap  and  "broom 
in  hand,  already  counting  over  in  imagination  the 
silver  quarters  he  would  receive  for  his  first  fox-skin. 
With  the  utmost  care,  and  with  a  palpitating  heart, 
he  removed  enough  of  the  trodden  snow  to  allow  the 
trap  to  sink  below  the  surface.  Then,  carefully  sift- 
ing the  light  element  over  it  and  sweeping  his  tracks 
full,  he  quickly  withdrew,  laughing  exultingly  over 
the  little  surprise  he  had  prepared  for  the  cunning 
rogue.  The  elements  conspired  to  aid  him,  and  the 
falling  snow  rapidly  obliterated  all  vestiges  of  his 
work.  The  next  morning  at  dawn,  he  was  on  his 


62  THE   SNOW-WALKERS. 

way  to  bring  in  his  fur.  The  snow  had  done  its 
work  effectually,  and,  he  believed,  had  kept  his  secret 
well.  Arrived  in  sight  of  the  locality,  he  strained 
his  vision  to  make  out  his  prize  lodged  against  the 
fence  at  the  foot  of  the  hill.  Approaching  nearer, 
the  surface  was  unbroken,  and  doubt  usurped  the 
place  of  certainty  in  his  mind.  A  slight  mound 
marked  the  site  of  the  porker,  but  there  was  no 
foot-print  near  it.  Looking  up  the  hill,  he  saw  where 
Eeynard  had  walked  leisurely  down  toward  hia 
wonted  bacon  till  within  a  few  yards  of  it,  when  he 
had  wheeled,  and  with  prodigious  strides  disappeared 
in  the  woods.  The  young  trapper  saw  at  a  glance 
what  a  comment  this  was  upon  his  skill  in  the  art, 
and  indignantly  exhuming  the  iron,  he  walked  home 
with  it,  the  stream  of  silver  quarters  suddenly  setting 
in  another  direction. 

The  successful  trapper  commences  in  the  fall,  or 
before  the  first  deep  snow.  In  a  field  not  too  re- 
mote, with  an  old  axe,  he  cuts  a  small  place,  say  ten 
inches  by  fourteen,  in  the  frozen  ground,  and  removes 
the  earth  to  the  depth  of  three  or  four  inches,  then 
fills  the  cavity  with  dry  ashes,  in  which  are  placed 
bits  of  roasted  cheese.  Reynard  is  very  suspicious 
at  first,  and  gives  the  place  a  wide  berth.  It  looks 
like  design,  and  he  will  see  how  the  thing  behaves 
before  he  approaches  too  near.  But  the  cheese  is 
savory  and  the  cold  severe.  He  ventures  a  little 
closer  every  night,  xmtil  he  can  reach  and  pick  a 
piece  from  the  surface.  Emboldened  by  success,  like 


THE   SNOW-WALKERS.  63 

other  mortals,  he  presently  digs  freely  among  the 
ashes,  and,  finding  a  fresh  supply  of  the  delectable 
morsels  every  night,  is  soon  thrown  off  his  guard, 
and  his  suspicions  quite  lulled.  After  a  week  of 
baiting  in  this  manner,  and  on  the  eve  of  a  light  fall 
of  snow,  the  trapper  carefully  conceals  his  trap  in  the 
bed,  first  smoking  it  thoroughly  with  hemlock  boughs 
to  kill  or  neutralize  all  smell  of  the  iron.  If  the 
weather  favors  and  the  proper  precautions  have  been 
taken,  he  may  succeed,  though  the  chances  are  still 
greatly  against  him. 

Reynard  is  usually  caught  very  lightly,  seldom 
more  than  the  ends  of  his  toes  being  between  the 
jaws.  He  sometimes  works  so  cautiously  as  to  spring 
the  trap  without  injury  even  to  his  toes  ;  or  may  re- 
move the  cheese  night  after  night  without  even 
springing  it.  I  knew  an  old  trapper  who,  on  finding 
himself  outwitted  in  this  manner,  tied  a  bit  of  cheese 
to  the  pan,  and  next  morning  had  poor  Reynard  by 
the  jaw.  The  trap  is  not  fastened,  but  only  encum- 
bered with  a  clog,  and  is  all  the  more  sure  in  its  hold 
by  yielding  to  every  effort  of  the  animal  to  extricate 
himself. 

When  Reynard  sees  his  captor  approaching,  he 
would  fain  drop  into  a  mouse-hole  to  render  himself 
invisible.  He  crouches  to  the  ground  and  remains 
perfectly  motionless  until  he  perceives  himself  discov- 
ered, when  he  makes  one  desperate  and  final  effort  to 
escape,  but  ceases  all  struggling  as  you  come  up,  and 
behaves  in  a  manner  that  stamps  him  a  very  timid 


64  THE    SNOW-WALKERS. 

warrior,  —  cowering  to  the  earth  with  a  mingled  look 
of  shame,  guilt,  and  abject  fear.  A  young  farmer 
told  me  of  tracing  one  with  his  trap  to  the  border  of 
a  wood,  where  he  discovered  the  cunning  rogue  try- 
ing to  hide  by  embracing  a  small  tree.  Most  animals, 
when  taken  in  a  trap,  show  fight ;  but  Reynard  has 
more  faith  in  the  nimbleness  of  his  feet  than  in  the 
terror  of  his  teeth. 

Entering  the  woods,  the  number  and  variety  of  the 
tracks  contrast  strongly  with  the  rigid,  frozen  aspect 
of  things.  Warm  jets  of  life  still  shoot  and  play 
amid  this  snowy  desolation.  Fox-tracks  are  far  less 
numerous  than  in  the  fields ;  but  those  of  hares, 
skunks,  partridges,  squirrels,  and  mice  abound.  The 
mice  tracks  are  very  pretty,  and  look  like  a  sort  of 
fantastic  stitching  on  the  coverlid  of  the  snow.  One 
is  curious  to  know  what  brings  these  tiny  creatures 
from  their  retreats  ;  they  do  not  seem  to  be  in  quest 
of  food,  but  rather  to  be  traveling  about  for  pleasure 
or  sociability,  though  always  going  post-haste,  and 
linking  stump  with  stump  and  tree  with  tree  by  fine, 
hurried  strides.  That  is  when  they  travel  openly  ;  but 
they  have  hidden  passages  and  winding  galleries  under 
the  snow,  which  undoubtedly  are  their  main  avenues 
of  communication.  Here  and  there  these  passages 
rise  so  near  the  surface  as  to  be  covered  by  only  a 
frail  arch  of  snow,  and  a  slight  ridge  betrays  their 
course  to  the  eye.  I  know  him  well.  He  is  known 
to  the  farmer  as  the  "  deer-mouse,"  to  the  naturalist 
as  the  white-footed  mouse  (Hesperomys  leucopus)  —  a 


THE   SNOW-WALKERS.  65 

very  beautiful  creature,  nocturnal  in  his  habits,  with 
large  ears,  and  large,  fine  eyes,  full  of  a  wild,  harm- 
less look.  He  is  daintily  marked,  with  white  feet 
and  a  white  belly.  When  disturbed  by  day  he  is 
very  easily  captured,  having  none  of  the  cunning 
or  viciousness  of  the  common  Old  World  mouse. 

It  is  he  who,  high  in  the  hollow  trunk  of  some  tree, 
lays  by  a  store  of  beech-nuts  for  winter  use.  Every 
nut  is  carefully  shelled,  and  the  cavity  that  serves  as 
storehouse  lined  with  grass  and  leaves.  The  wood- 
chopper  frequently  squanders  this  precious  store.  I 
have  seen  half  a  peck  taken  from  one  tree,  as  clean 
and  white  as  if  put  up  by  the  most  delicate  hands,  — 
as  they  were.  How  long  it  must  have  taken  the  little 
creature  to  collect  this  quantity,  to  hull  them  one  by 
one,  and  convey  them  up  to  his  fifth-story  chamber  ! 
He  is  not  confined  to  the  woods,  but  is  quite  as  com- 
mon in  the  fields,  particularly  in  the  fall,  amid  the 
corn  and  potatoes.  When  routed  by  the  plow,  I 
have  seen  the  old  one  take  flight  with  half  a  dozen 
young  hanging  to  her  teats,  and  with  such  reckless 
speed  that  some  of  the  young  would  lose  their  hold 
and  fly  off  amid  the  weeds.  Taking  refuge  in  a 
stump  with  the  rest  of  her  family,  the  anxious  mother 
would  presently  come  back  and  hunt  up  the  missing 
ones. 

The  snow-walkers  are  mostly  night-walkers  also, 

and  the  record  they  leave  upon  the  snow  is  the  main 

clew  one  has  to  their  life  and  doings.     The  hare  is 

nocturnal  in  its  habits,  and  though  a  very  lively  creat- 

5 


66  THE   SNOW-WALKERS. 

ure  at  night,  with  regular  courses  and  run-ways 
through  the  wood,  is  entirely  quiet  by  day.  Timid 
as  he  is,  he  makes  little  effort  to  conceal  himself,  usu-- 
ally  squatting  beside  a  log,  stump,  or  tree,  and  seem- 
ing to  avoid  rocks  and  ledges  where  he  might  be  par- 
tially housed  from  the  cold  and  the  snow,  but  where 
also  —  and  this  consideration  undoubtedly  determines 
his  choice  —  he  would  be  more  apt  to  fall  a  prey  to  his 
enemies.  In  this,  as  well  as  in  many  other  respects, 
he  differs  from  the  rabbit  proper  (Lepus  sylvaticus)  , 
he  never  burrows  in  the  ground,  or  takes  refuge  in  a 
den  or  hole,  when  pursued.  If  caught  in  the  open 
fields,  he  is  much  confused  and  easily  overtaken  by 
the  dog ;  but  in  the  woods,  he  leaves  him  at  a  bound. 
In  summer,  when  first  disturbed,  he  beats  the  ground 
violently  with  his  feet,  by  which  means  he  would  ex- 
press to  you  his  surprise  or  displeasure  ;  it  is  a  dumb 
way  he  has  of  scolding.  After  leaping  a  few  yards,  he 
pauses  an  instant,  as  if  to  determine  the  degree  of  dan- 
ger, and  then  hurries  away  with  a  much  lighter  tread. 
His  feet  are  like  great  pads,  and  his  track  has  little 
of  the  sharp,  articulated  expression  of  Reynard's,  or 
of  animals  that  climb  or  dig.  Yet  it  is  very  pretty 
like  all  the  rest,  and  tells  its  own  tale.  There  is 
nothing  bold  or  vicious  or  vulpine  in  it,  and  his  timid, 
harmless  character  is  published  at  every  leap.  He 
abounds  in  dense  woods,  preferring  localities  filled 
with  a  small  undergrowth  of  beech  and  birch,  upon 
the  bark  of  which  he  feeds.  Nature  is  rather  partial 
to  him,  and  matches  his  extreme  local  habits  and  char- 


THE   SNOW-WALKERS.  67 

acter  with  a  suit  that  corresponds  with  his  surround- 
ings, —  reddish-gray  in  summer  and  white  in  winter. 

The  sharp-rayed  track  of  the  partridge  adds  another 
figure  to  this  fantastic  embroidery  upon  the  winter 
snow.  Her  course  is  a  clear,  strong  line,  sometimes 
quite  wayward,  but  generally  very  direct,  steering 
for  the  densest,  most  impenetrable  places,  —  lead- 
ing you  over  logs  and  through  brush,  alert  and  ex- 
pectant, till,  suddenly,  she  bursts  up  a  few  yards  from 
you,  and  goes  humming  through  the  trees,, —  the 
complete  triumph  of  endurance  and  vigor.  Hardy 
native  bird,  may  your  tracks  never  be  fewer,  or  your 
visits  to  the  birch-tree  less  frequent ! 

The  squirrel -tracks  —  sharp,  nervous,  and  wiry  — 
have  their  histories  also.  But  who  ever  saw  squirrels 
in  winter  ?  The  naturalists  say  they  are  mostly  tor- 
pid ;  yet  evidently  that  little  pocket-faced  depredator 
the  chipmunk,  was  not  carrying  buckwheat  for  so 
many  days  to  his  hole  for  nothing  ;  —  was  he  antici- 
pating a  state  of  torpidity,  or  providing  against  the 
demands  of  a  very  active  appetite?  Red  and  gray 
squirrels  are  more  or  less  active  all  winter,  though 
very  shy,  and,  I  am  inclined  to  think,  partially  noc- 
turnal in  their  habits.  Here  a  gray  one  has  just 
passed,  —  came  down  that  tree  and  went  up  this; 
there  he  dug  for  a  beech-nut,  and  left  the  bur  on 
the  snow.  How  did  he  know  where  to  dig  ?  During 
an  unusually  severe  winter  I  have  known  him  to  make 
long  journeys  to  a  barn,  in  a  remote  field,  where 
wheat  was  stored.  How  did  he  know  there  was 


68  THE    SNOW-WALKERS. 

wheat  there  ?  In  attempting  to  return,  the  adventur- 
ous creature  was  frequently  run  down  and  caught  in 
the  deep  snow. 

His  home  is  in  the  trunk  of  some  old  birch  or  ma- 
ple, with  an  entrance  far  up  amid  the  branches.  In 
the  spring  he  builds  himself  a  summer-house  of  small 
leafy  twigs  in  the  top  of  a  neighboring  beech,  where 
the  young  are  reared  and  much  of  the  time  passed. 
But  the  safer  retreat  in  the  maple  is  not  abandoned, 
and  both  old  and  young  resort  thither  in  the  fall,  or 
when  danger  threatens.  Whether  this  temporary 
residence  amid  the  branches  is  for  elegance  or  pleas- 
ure, or  for  sanitary  reasons  or  domestic  convenience, 
the  naturalist  has  forgotten  to  mention. 

The  elegant  creature,  so  cleanly  hi  its  habits,  so 
graceful  in  its  carriage,  so  nimble  and  daring  in  its 
movements,  excites  feelings  of  admiration  akin  to 
those  awakened  by  the  birds  and  the  fairer  forms  of 
nature.  His  passage  through  the  trees  is  almost  a 
flight..  Indeed,  the  flying-squirrel  has  little  or  no  ad- 
vantage over  him,  and  in  speed  and  nimbleness  can- 
not compare  with  him  at  all.  If  he  miss  his  footing 
and  fall,  he  is  sure  to  catch  on  the  next  branch  ;  if 
the  connection  be  broken,  he  leaps  recklessly  for  the 
nearest  spray  or  limb,  and  secures  his  hold,  even  if 
it  be  by  the  aid  of  his  teeth. 

His  career  of  frolic  and  festivity  begins  in  the  fall, 
after  the  birds  have  left  us  and  the  holiday  spirit  of 
nature  has  commenced  to  subside.  How  absorbing 
the  pastime  of  the  sportsman,  who  goes  to  the  woods 


THE   SNOW-WALKERS.  69 

in  the  still  October  morning  in  quest  of  him !  You 
step  lightly  across  the  threshold  of  the  forest,  and  sit 
down  upon  the  first  log  or  rock  to  await  the  signals. 
It  is  so  still  that  the  ear  suddenly  seems  to  have  ac- 
quired new  powers,  and  there  is  no  movement  to  con- 
fuse the  eye.  Presently  you  hear  the  rustling  of  a 
branch,  and  see  it  sway  or  spring  as  the  squirrel  leaps 
from  or  to  it ;  or  else  you  hear  a  disturbance  in  the 
dry  leaves,  and  mark  one  running  upon  the  ground. 
He  has  probably  seen  the  intruder,  and,  not  liking  his 
stealthy  movements,  desires  to  avoid  a  nearer  ac- 
quaintance. Now  he  mounts  a  stump  to  see  if  the 
way  is  clear,  then  pauses  a  moment  at  the  foot  of  a 
tree  to  take  his  bearings,  his  tail,  as  he  skims  along, 
undulating  behind  him,  and  adding  to  the  easy  grace 
and  dignity  of  his  movements.  Or  else  you  are  first 
advised  of  his  proximity  by  the  dropping  of  a  false 
nut,  or  the  fragments  of  the  shucks  rattling  upon  the 
leaves.  Or,  again,  after  contemplating  you  a  while 
unobserved,  and  making  up  his  mind  that  you  are 
not  dangerous,  he  strikes  an  attitude  on  a  branch,  and 
commences  to  quack  and  bark,  with  an  accompanying 
movement  of  his  tail.  Late  in  the  afternoon,  when 
the  same  stillness  reigns,  the  same  scenes  are  repeated. 
There  is  a  black  variety,  quite  rare,  but  mating  freely 
with  the  gray,  from  which  he  seems  to  be  distin- 
guished only  in  color. 

The  track  of  the  red  squirrel  may  be  known  by  its 
smaller  size.  He  is  more  common  and  less  dignified 
than  the  gray,  and  oftener  guilty  of  petty  larceny 


70  THE   SNOW-WALKERS. 

about  the  barns  and  grain-fields.  He  is  most  abun- 
dant in  old  bark-peelings,  and  low,  dilapidated  hem- 
locks, from  which  he  makes  excursions  to  the  fields 
and  orchards,  spinning  along  the  tops  of  the  fences, 
which  afford,  not  only  convenient  lines  of  communi- 
cation, but  a  safe  retreat  if  danger  threatens.  He 
loves  to  linger  about  the  orchard  ;  and,  sitting  upright 
on  the  topmost  stone  in  the  wall,  or  on  the  tallest 
stake  in  the  fence,  chipping  up  an  apple  for  the  seeds, 
his  tail  conforming  to  the  curve  of  his  back,  his  paws 
shifting  and  turning  the  apple,  he  is  a  pretty  sight, 
and  his  bright,  pert  appearance  atones  for  all  the  mis- 
chief he  does.  At  home,  in  the  woods,  he  is  the  most 
frolicsome  and  loquacious.  The  appearance  of  any- 
thing unusual,  if,  after  contemplating  it  a  moment,  he 
concludes  it  not  dangerous,  excites  his  unbounded 
mirth  and  ridicule,  and  he  snickers  and  chatters, 
hardly  able  to  contain  himself;  now  darting  up  the 
trunk  of  a  tree  and  squealing  in  derision,  then  hop- 
ping into  position  on  a  limb  and  dancing  to  the 
music  of  his  own  cackle,  and  all  for  your  special 
benefit. 

There  is  something  very  human  in  this  apparent 
mirth  and  mockery  of  the  squirrels.  It  seems  to  be 
a  sort  of  ironical  laughter,  and  implies  self-conscious 
pride  and  exultation  in  the  laughter.  "  What  a  ridic- 
ulous thing  you  are,  to  be  sure ! "  he  seems  to  say  ; 
"  how  clumsy  and  awkward,  and  what  a  poor  show 
for  a  tail !  Look  at  me,  look  at  me ! "  —  and  he 
capers  about  in  his  best  style.  Again,  he  would  seem 


THE   SNOW- WALKERS.  71 

to  tease  you  and  provoke  your  attention ;  then  sud- 
denly assumes  a  tone  of  good-natured,  child-like  defi- 
ance and  derision.  That  pretty  little  imp,  the  chip- 
munk, will  sit  on  the  stone  above  his  den,  and  defy 
you,  as  plainly  as  if  he  said  so,  to  catch  him  before  he 
can  get  into  his  hole  if  you  can.  You  hurl  a  stone  at 
him,  and  "  No  you  did  n't  "  comes  up  from  the  depth 
of  his  retreat. 

In  February  another  track  appears  upon  the  snow, 
slender  and  delicate,  about  a  third  larger  than  that  of 
the  gray  squirrel,  indicating  no  haste  or  speed,  but,  on 
the  contrary,  denoting  the  most  imperturbable  ease 
and  leisure,  the  foot-prints  so  close  together  that  the 
trail  appears  like  a  chain  of  curiously  carved  links. 
Sir  Mephitis  chinga,  or,  in  plain  English,  the  skunk, 
has  woke  up  from  his  six  weeks'  nap,  and  come  out 
into  society  again.  He  is  a  nocturnal  traveler,  very 
bold  and  impudent,  corning  quite  up  to  the  barn  and 
out-buildings,  and  sometimes  taking  up  his  quarters 
for  the  season  under  the  hay-mow.  There  is  no  such 
word  as  hurry  in  his  dictionary,  as  you  may  see  by 
his  path  upon  the  snow.  He  has  a  very  sneaking, 
insinuating  way,  and  goes  creeping  about  the  fields 
and  woods,  never  once  in  a  perceptible  degree  alter- 
ing his  gait,  and,  if  a  fence  crosses  his  course,  steers 
for  a  break  or  opening  to  avoid  climbing.  He  is  too 
indolent  even  to  dig  his  own  hole,  but  appropriates 
that  of  a  woodchuck,  or  hunts  out  a  crevice  in  the 
rocks,  from  which  he  extends  his  rambling  in  all  di- 
rections, preferring  damp,  thawy  weather.  He  has 


72  THE  SNOW-WALKERS. 

very  little  discretion  or  cunning,  and  holds  a  trap  in 
utter  contempt,  stepping  into  it  as  soon  as  beside  it, 
relying  implicitly  for  defense  against  all  forms  of 
danger  upon  the  unsavory  punishment  he  is  capable 
of  inflicting.  He  is  quite  indifferent  to  both  man  and 
beast,  and  will  not  hurry  himself  to  get  out  of  the 
way  of  either.  Walking  through  the  summer  fields 
at  twilight,  I  have  come  near  stepping  upon  him,  and 
was  much  the  more  disturbed  of  the  two.  When  at- 
tacked in  the  open  fields  he  confounds  the  plans  of 
his  enemies  by  the  unheard-of  tactics  of  exposing  his 
rear  rather  than  his  front.  "  Come  if  you  dare,"  he 
says,  and  his  attitude  makes  even  the  farm-dog  pause. 
After  a  few  encounters  of  this  kind,  and  if  you  enter- 
tain the  usual  hostility  towards  him,  your  mode  of 
attack  will  speedily  resolve  itself  into  moving  about 
him  in  a  circle,  the  radius  of  which  will  be  the  exact 
distance  at  which  you  can  hurl  a  stone  with  accuracy 
and  effect. 

He  has  a  secret  to  keep,  and  knows  it,  and  is  care- 
ful not  to  betray  himself  until  he  can  do  so  with  the 
most  telling  effect.  I  have  known  him  to  preserve 
his  serenity  even  when  caught  in  a  steel  trap,  and 
look  the  very  picture  of  injured  innocence.  rnano3u- 
vring  carefully  and  deliberately  to  extricate  his  foot 
from  the  grasp  of  the  naughty  jaws.  Do  not  by  any 
means  take  pity  on  him,  and  lend  a  helping  hand ! 

How  pretty  his  face  and  head!  How  fine  and 
delicate  his  teeth,  like  a  weasel's  or  cat's!  When 
about  a  third  grown,  he  looks  so  well  that  one  cov- 


THE   SXOW-WALKERS.  73 

ets  him  for  a  pet.  He  is  quite  precocious,  however, 
and  capable,  even  at  this  tender  age,  of  making  a 
very  stroug  appeal  to  your  sense  of  smell. 

No  animal  is  more  cleanly  in  its  habits  than  he. 
He  is  not  an  awkward  boy,  who  cuts  his  own  face 
with  his  whip ;  and  neither  his  flesh  nor  his  fur  hints 
the  weapon  with  which  he  is  armed.  The  most  silent 
creature  known  to  me,  he  makes  no  sound,  so  far  as 
I  have  observed,  save  a  diffuse,  impatient  noise,  like 
that  produced  by  beating  your  hand  with  a  whisk- 
broom,  when  the  farm-dog  has  discovered  his  retreat 
in  the  stone  fence.  He  renders  himself  obnoxious  to 
the  farmer  by  his  partiality  for  hens'  eggs  and  young 
poultry.  He  is  a  confirmed  epicure,  and  at  plunder- 
ing hen-roosts  an  expert.  Not  the  full-grown  fowls 
are  his  victims,  but  the  youngest  and  most  tender. 
At  night  Mother  Hen  receives  under  her  maternal 
wings  a  dozen  newly  hatched  chickens,  and  with 
much  pride  and  satisfaction  feels  them  all  safely 
tucked  away  in  her  feathers.  In  the  morning  she  is 
walking  about  disconsolately,  attended  by  only  two 
or  three  of  all  that  pretty  brood.  What  has  hap- 
pened? Where  are  they  gone?  That  pickpocket, 
Sir  Mephitis,  could  solve  the  mystery.  Quietly  has 
he  approached,  under  cover  of  darkness,  and  one  by 
one,  relieved  her  of  her  precious  charge.  Look 
closely,  and  you  will  see  their  little  yellow  legs  and 
beaks,  or  part  of  a  mangled  form,  lying  about  on  the 
ground.  Or,  before  the  hen  has  hatched,  he  may 
find  her  out,  and,  by  the  same  sleight  of  hand,  re- 


74  THE  SNOW-WALKERS. 

move  every  egg,  leaving  only  the  empty  blood- 
stained shells  to  witness  against  him.  The  birds,  es- 
pecially the  ground-builders,  suffer  in  like  manner 
from  his  plundering  propensities. 

The  secretion -upon  which  he  relies  for  defense, 
and  which  is  the  chief  source  of  his  unpopularity, 
while  it  affords  good  reasons  against  cultivating  him 
as  a  pet,  and  mars  his  attractiveness  as  game,  is  by 
no  means  the  greatest  indignity  that  can  be  offered 
to  a  nose.  It  is  a  rank,  living  smell,  and  has  none  of 
the  sickening  qualities  of  disease  or  putrefaction. 
Indeed,  I  think  a  good  smeller  will  enjoy  its  ihost  re- 
fined intensity.  It  approaches  the  sublime,  and 
*  makes  the  nose  tingle.  It  is  tonic  and  bracing,  and, 
I  can  readily  believe,  has  rare  medicinal  qualities.  I 
do  not  recommend  its  use  as  eye-water,  though  an  old 
farmer  assures  me  it  has  undoubted  virtues  when 
thus  applied.  Hearing,  one  night,  a  disturbance 
among  his  hens,  he  rushed  suddenly  out  to  catch  the 
thief,  when  Sir  Mephitis,  taken  by  surprise,  and  no 
doubt  much  annoyed  at  being  interrupted,  discharged 
the  vials  of  his  wrath  full  in  the  farmer's  face,  and 
with  such  admirable  effect,  that,  for  a  few  moments, 
he  was  completely  blinded,  and  powerless  to  revenge 
himself  upon  the  rogue,  who  embraced  the  opportu- 
nity to  make  good  his  escape  ;  but  he  declared  that 
afterwards  his  eyes  felt  as  if  purged  by  fire,  and  his 
sight  was  much  clearer. 

In  March  that  brief  summary  of  a  bear,  the  rac- 
coon, comes  out  of  his  den  in  the  ledges,  and  leaves 


THE   SNOW-WALKERS.  75 

his  sharp  digitigrade  track  upon  the  snow,  —  travel- 
ing not  unfrequently  in  pairs,  —  a  lean,  hungry 
couple,  bent  on  pillage  and  plunder.  They  have  an 
unenviable  time  of  it,  —  feasting  in  the  summer  and 
fall,  hibernating  in  winter,  and  starving  in  spring. 
In  April  I  have  found  the  young  of  the  previous 
year  creeping  about  the  fields,  so  reduced  by  starva- 
tion as  to  be  quite  helpless,  and  offering  no  resistance 
to  my  taking  them  up  by  the  tail,  and  carrying  them 
home. 

The  old  ones  also  become  very  much  emaciated, 
and  come  boldly  up  to  the  barn  or  other  out-build- 
ings in  quest  of  food.  I  remember  one  morning  in 
early  spring,  of  hearing  old  Cuff,  the  farm-dog,  bark- 
ing vociferously  before  it  was  yet  light.  When  we 
got  up  we  discovered  him,  at  the  foot  of  an  ash-tree 
standing  about  thirty  rods  from  the  house,  looking  up 
at  some  gray  object,  in  the  leafless  branches,  and  by 
his  manners  and  his  voice  evincing  great  impatience 
that  we  were  so  tardy  in  coming  to  his  assistance. 
Arrived  on  the  spot,  we  saw  in  the  tree  a  coon  of  un- 
usual size.  One  bold  climber  proposed  to  go  up  and 
shake  him  down.  This  was  what  old  Cuff  wanted, 
and  he  fairly  bounded  with  delight  as  he  saw  his 
young  master  shinning  up  the  tree.  Approaching 
within  eight  or  ten  feet  of  the  coon,  he  seized  the 
branch  to  which  it  clung  and  shook  long  and  fiercely. 
But  the  coon  was  in  no  danger  of  losing  his  hold, 
and  when  the  climber  paused  to  renew  its  hold,  it 
turned  toward  him  with  a  growl  and  showed  very 


76  THE   SNOW-WALKERS. 

clearly  a  purpose  to  advance  to  the  attack.  This 
caused  his  pursuer  to  descend  to  the  ground  again 
with  all  speed.  When  the  coon  was  finally  brought 
down  with  a  gun,  he  fought  the  dog,  which  was  a 
large,  powerful  animal,  with  great  fury,  returning 
bite  for  bite  for  some  moments  ;  and  after  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  had  elapsed  and  his  unequal  antagonist 
had  shaken  him  as  a  terrier  does  a  rat,  making  his 
teeth  meet  through  the  small  of  his  back,  the  coon 
still  showed  fight. 

They  are  very  tenacious  of  life,  and  like  the  badger 
will  always  whip  a  dog  of  their  own  size  and  weight. 
A  woodchuck  can  bite  severely,  having  teeth  that  cut 
like  chisels,  but  a  coon  has  agility  and  power  of  limb 
as  well. 

They  are  only  considered  game  in  the  fall  or  to- 
wards the  close  of  summer,  when  they  become  fat 
and  their  flesh  sweet.  At  this  time,  cooning  in  the 
remote  interior  is  a  famous  pastime.  As  this  animal 
is  entirely  nocturnal  in  its  habits  it  is  hunted  only  at 
night.  A  piece  of  corn  on  some  remote  side  hill  near 
the  mountain,  or  between  two  pieces  of  woods,  is 
most  apt  to  be  frequented  by  them.  While  the  corn 
is  yet  green  they  pull  the  ears  down  like  hogs,  and 
tearing  open  the  sheathing  of  husks,  eat  the  tender, 
succulent  kernels,  bruising  and  destroying  much  more 
than  they  devour.  Sometimes  their  ravages  are  a 
matter  of  serious  concern  to  the  farmer.  But  every 
such  neighborhood  has  its  coon-dog,  and  the  boys 
and  young  men  dearly  love  the  sport.  The  party 


THE   SXOW-WALKERS.  77 

sets  out  about  eight  or  nine  o'clock  of  a  dark,  moon- 
less night,  and  stealthily  approach  the  cornfield.  The 
dog  knows  his  business  and  when  he  is  put  into  a 
patch  of  corn  and  told  to  "  hunt  them  up  "  he  makes 
a  thorough  search  and  will  not  be  misled  by  any 
other  scent.  You  hear  him  rattling  through  the  corn 
hither  and  yon,  with  great  speed.  The  coons  prick 
np  their  ears,  and  leave  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
field.  In  the  stillness  you  may  sometimes  hear  a 
single  stone  rattle  on  the  wall  as  they  hurry  toward 
the  woods.  If  the  dog  finds  nothing  he  comes  back 
to  his  master  in  a  short  time,  and  says  in  his  dumb 
way,  "  No  coon  there."  But  if  he  strikes  a  trail  you 
presently  hear  a  louder  rattling  on  the  stone  wall  and 
then  a  hurried  bark  as  he  enters  the  woods,  followed 
in  few  minutes  by  loud  and  repeated  barking  as  he 
reaches  the  foot  of  the  tree  in  which  the  coon  has 
taken  refuge.  Then  follows  a  pell-mell  rush  of  the 
cooning  party  up  the  hill,  into  the  woods,  through  the 
brush  and  the  darkness,  falling  over  prostrate  trees, 
pitching  into  gulleys  and  hollows,  losing  hats  and 
tearing  clothes,  till  finally,  guided  by  the  baying  of 
the  faithful  dog,  the  tree  is  reached.  The  first  thing 
now  in  order  is  to  kindle  a  fire,  and  if  its  light  reveals 
the  coon,  to  shoot  him.  If  not,  to  fell  the  tree  with 
an  axe.  If  this  happens  to  be  too  great  a  sacrifice 
of  timber  and  of  strength,  to  sit  down  at  the  foot  of 
the  tree  till  morning. 

But  with  March  our  interest  in  these  phases  of 
animal   life,  which   winter   has  so   emphasized   and 


78  THE   SNOW-WALKERS. 

brought  out,  begins  to  decline.  Vague  rumors  are 
afloat  in  the  air  of  a  great  and  coming  change.  We 
are  eager  for  Winter  to  be  gone,  since  he  too  is  fugi- 
tive, and  cannot  keep  his  place.  Invisible  hands  de- 
face his  icy  statuary  ;  his  chisel  has  lost  its  cunning. 
The  drifts,  so  pure  and  exquisite,  are  now  earth- 
stained  and  weather-worn,  —  the  flutes  and  scallops, 
and  fine,  firm  lines,  all  gone  ;  and  what  was  a  grace 
and  an  ornament  to  the  hills  is  now  a  disfiguration. 
Like  worn  and  unwashed  linen  appear  the  remains  of 
that  spotless  robe  with  which  he  clothed  the  world 
as  his  bride. 

But  he  will  not  abdicate  without  a  struggle.  Day 
after  day  he  rallies  his  scattered  forces,  and  night 
after  night  pitches  his  white  tents  on  the  hills,  and 
would  fain  regain  his  lost  ground ;  but  the  young 
prince  in  every  encounter  prevails.  Slowly  and  re- 
luctantly the  gray  old  hero  retreats  up  the  mountain, 
till  finally  the  south  rain  comes  in  earnest,  and  in  a 
night  he  is  dead. 


THE   FOX. 


THE  FOX. 

I  HAVE  already  spoken  of  the  fox  at  some  length, 
but  it  will  take  a  chapter  by  itself  to  do  half  justice 
to  his  portrait. 

He  furnishes,  perhaps,  the  only  instance  that  can 
be  cited  of  a  fur-bearing  animal  that  not  only  holds 
its  own,  but  that  actually  increases  in  the  face  of  the 
means  that  are  used  for  its  extermination.  The 
beaver,  for  instance,  was  gone  before  the  earliest 
settlers  could  get  a  sight  of  him ;  and  even  the  mink 
and  marten  are  now  only  rarely  seen,  or  not  seen  at 
all,  in  places  where  they  were  once  abundant. 

But  the  fox  has  survived  civilization,  and  in  some 
localities  is  no  doubt  more  abundant  now  than  in  the 
time  of  the  Revolution.  For  half  a  century  at  least 
he  has  been  almost  the  only  prize,  in  the  way  of  fur, 
that  was  to  be  found  on  our  mountains,  and  he  has 
been  hunted  and  trapped  and  waylaid,  sought  for  as 
game  and  pursued  in  enmity,  taken  by  fair  means 
and  by  foul,  and  yet  there  seems  not  the  slightest 
danger  of  the  species  becoming  extinct. 

One  would  think  that  a  single  hound  in  a  neigh- 
borhood, filling  the  mountains  with  his  bayings,  and 


82  THE   FOX. 

leaving  no  nook  or  by-way  of  them  unexplored,  was 
enough  to  drive  and  scare  every  fox  from  the  coun- 
try. But  not  so.  Indeed,  I  am  almost  tempted  to 
say,  the  more  hounds,  the  more  foxes. 

I  recently  spent  a  summer  month  in  a  mountainous 
district  in  the  State  of  New  York,  where,  from  its 
earliest  settlement,  the  red  fox  has  been  the  standing 
prize  for  skill  in  the  use  of  the  trap  and  gun.  At  the 
house  where  I  was  stopping  were  two  fox-hounds,  and 
a  neighbor,  half  a  mile  distant,  had  a  third.  There 
were  many  others  in  the  township,  and  in  season  they 
were  well  employed,  too  ;  but  the  three  spoken  of,  at- 
tended by  their  owners,  held  high  carnival  on  the 
mountains  in  the  immediate  vicinity.  And  many 
were  the  foxes  that,  winter  after  winter,  fell  before 
them,  twenty-five  having  been  shot  the  season  before 
my  visit,  on  one  small  range  alone.  And  yet  the 
foxes  were  apparently  never  more  abundant  than 
they  were  that  summer,  and  never  bold,  coming  at 
night  within  a  few  rods  of  the  house,  and  of  the  un- 
chained alert  hounds,  and  making  havoc  among  the 
poultry. 

One  morning  a  large  fat  goose  was  found  minus  her 
head  and  otherwise  mangled.  Both  hounds  had  dis- 
appeared, and  as  they  did  not  come  back  till  near 
night,  it  was  inferred  that  they  had  cut  short  Rey- 
nard's repast,  and  given  him  a  good  chase  into  the 
bargain.  But  next  night  he  was  back  again,  and  this 
time  got  safely  off  with  the  goose.  A  couple  of 
nights  after  he  must  have  come  with  recruits,  for 


THE   FOX.  83 

next  morning  three  large  goslings  were  reported 
missing.  The  silly  geese  now  got  it  through  their 
noddles  that  there  was  clanger  about,  and  every  night 
thereafter  came  close  up  to  the  house  to  roost. 

A  brood  of  turkeys,  the  old  one  tied  to  a  tree  a 
few  rods  to  the  rear  of  the  house,  were  the  next  ob- 
jects of  attack.  The  predaceous  rascal  came,  as 
usual,  in  the  latter  half  of  the  night.  I  happened  to 
be  awake,  and  heard  the  helpless  turkey  cry  "  Quit," 
"  quit,"  with  great  emphasis.  Another  sleeper,  on 
the  floor  above  me,  who,  it  seems,  had  been  sleeping 
with  one  ear  awake  for  several  nights  in  apprehen- 
sion for  the  safety  of  his  turkeys,  heard  the  sound 
also,  and  instantly  divined  its  cause.  I  heard  the 
window  open  and  a  voice  summon  the  dogs.  A  loud 
bellow  was  the  response,  which  caused  Reynard  to 
take  himself  off  in  a  hurry.  A  moment  more,  and 
the  mother  turkey  would  have  shared  the  fate  of  the 
geese.  There  she  lay  at  the  end  of  her  tether,  with 
extended  wings,  bitten  and  rumpled.  The  young 
ones  roosted  in  a  row  on  the  fence  near  by,  and  had 
taken  flight  on  the  first  alarm. 

Turkeys,  retaining  many  of  their  wild  instincts,  are 
less  easily  captured  by  the  fox  than  any  other  of  our 
domestic  fowls.  On  the  slightest  show  of  danger 
they  take  to  wing,  and  it  is  not  unusual,  in  the  local- 
ity of  which  I  speak,  to  find  them  in  the  morning 
perched  in  the  most  unwonted  places,  as  on  the  peak 
of  the  barn  or  hay-shed,  or  on  the  tops  of  the  apple- 
trees,  their  tails  spread  and  their  manners  showing 


84  THE  FOX. 

much  excitement.  Perchance  one  turkey  is  minus 
her  tail,  the  fox  having  succeeded  in  getting  only  a 
mouthful  of  quills. 

As  the  brood  grows  and  their  wings  develop,  they 
wander  far  from  the  house  in  quest  of  grasshoppers. 
At  such  times  they  are  all  watchfulness  and  suspicion. 
Crossing  the  fields  one  day,  attended  by  a  dog  that 
much  resembled  a  fox,  I  came  suddenly  upon  a  brood 
about  one  third  grown,  which  were  feeding  in  a  past- 
ure just  beyond  a  wood.  It  so  happened  that  they 
caught  sight  of  the  dog  without  seeing  me,  when  in- 
stantly, with  the  celerity  of  wild  game,  they  launched 
into  the  air,  and,  while  the  old  one  perched  upon  a 
tree-top,  as  if  to  keep  an  eye  on  the  supposed  enemy, 
the  young  went  sailing  over  the  trees  towards  home. 

The  two  hounds  above  referred  to,  accompanied  by 
a  cur-dog,  whose  business  it  was  to  mind  the  farm, 
but  who  took  as  much  delight  in  running  away  from 
prosy  duty  as  if  he  had  been  a  school-boy,  would  fre- 
quently steal  off  and  have  a  good  hunt  all  by  them- 
selves, just  for  the  fun  of  the  thing,  I  suppose.  I 
more  than  half  suspect  that  it  was  as  a  kind  of  taunt 
or  retaliation,  that  Reynard  came  and  took  the  geese 
from  under  their  very  noses.  One  morning  they 
went  off  and  stayed  till  the  afternoon  of  the  next 
day ;  they  ran  the  fox  all  day  and  all  night,  the 
hounds  baying  at  every  jump,  the  cur-dog  silent  and 
tenacious.  When  the  trio  returned  they  came  drag- 
ging themselves  along,  stiff,  foot-sore,  gaunt,  and 
hungry.  For  a  day  or  two  afterward  they  lay  about 


THE  FOX.  85 

the  kennels,  seeming  to  dread  nothing  so  much  as  the 
having  to  move.  The  stolen  hunt  was  their  "  spree," 
their  "  bender,"  and  of  course  they  must  take  time  to 
get  over  it. 

Some  old  hunters  think  the  fox  enjoys  the  chase  as 
much  as  the  hound,  especially  when  the  latter  runs 
slow,  as  the  best  hounds  do.  The  fox  will  wait  for 
the  hound,  will  sit  down  and  listen,  or  play  about, 
crossing  and  recrossing  and  doubling  upon  his  track, 
as  if  enjoying  a  mischievous  consciousness  of  the  per- 
plexity he  would  presently  cause  his  pursuer.  It  is 
evident,  however,  that  the  fox  does  not  always  have 
his  share  of  the  fun  :  before  a  swift  dog,  or  in  a  deep 
snow,  or  on  a  wet  day  when  his  tail  gets  heavy,  he 
must  put  his  best  foot  forward.  As  a  last  resort  he 
"  holes  up."  Sometimes  he  resorts  to  numerous  de- 
vices to  mislead  and  escape  the  dog  altogether.  He 
will  walk  in  the  bed  of  a  small  creek,  or  on  a  rail- 
fence.  I  heard  of  an  instance  of  a  fox,  hard  and  long 
pressed,  that  took  to  a  rail-fence,  and  after  walking 
some  distance,  made  a  leap  to  one  side  to  a  hollow 
stump,  in  the  cavity  of  which  he  snugly  stowed  him- 
self. The  ruse  succeeded,  and  the  dogs  lost  the  trail ; 
but  the  hunter  coming  up,  passed  by  chance  near  the 
stump,  when  out  bounded  the  fox,  his  cunning  avail- 
ing him  less  than  he  deserved.  On  another  occasion 
the  fox  took  to  the  public  road,  and  stepped  with 
great  care  and  precision  into  a  sleigh-track.  The 
hard,  polished  snow  took  no  imprint  of  the  light  foot, 
and  the  scent  was  no  doubt  less  than  it  would  have 


86  THE  FOX. 

been  on  a  rougher  surface.  May  be,  also,  the  rogue 
had  considered  the  chances  of  another  sleigh  coming 
along,  before  the  hound,  and  obliterating  the  trail 
entirely. 

Audubon  relates  of  a  certain  fox,  which,  when 
started  by  the  hounds,  always  managed  to  elude  them 
at  a  certain  point.  Finally  the  hunter  concealed 
himself  in  the  locality,  to  discover,  if  possible,  the 
trick.  Presently  along  came  the  fox,  and  making  a 
leap  to  one  side,  ran  up  the  trunk  of  a  fallen  tree 
which  had  lodged  some  feet  from  the  ground,  and 
concealed  himself  in  the  top.  In  a  few  minutes  the 
hounds  came  up,  and  in  their  eagerness  passed  some 
distance  beyond  the  point,  and  then  went  still  farther, 
looking  for  the  lost  trail.  Then  the  fox  hastened 
down,  and,  taking  his  back-track,  fooled  the  dogs 
completely. 

I  was  told  of  a  silver-gray  fox  in  northern  Xew 
York,  which,  when  pursued  by  the  hounds,  would  run 
till  it  had  hunted  up  another  fox,  or  the  fresh  trail  of 
one,  when  it  would  so  manoeuvre  that  the  hound 
would  invariably  be  switched  off  on  the  second  track. 

In  cold,  dry  weather  the  fox  will  sometimes  elude 
the  hound,  at  least  delay  him  much,  by  taking  to  a 
bare,  plowed  field.  The  hard  dry  earth  seems  not  to 
retain  a  particle  of  the  scent,  and  the  hound  gives  a 
loud,  long,  peculiar  bark,  to  signify  he  has  trouble. 
It  is  now  his  turn  to  show  his  wit,  which  he  often 
does  by  passing  completely  around  the  field,  and  re- 
suming the  trail  again  where  it  crosses  the  fence  or  a 
strip  of  snow. 


THE   FOX.  87 

The  fact  that  any  dry,  hard  surface  is  unfavorable 
to  the  hound,  suggests,  in  a  measure,  the  explanation 
of  the  wonderful  faculty  that  all  dogs  in  a  degree 
possess  to  track  an  animal  by  the  scent  of  the  foot 
alone.  Did  you  ever  think  why  a  dog's  nose  u 
always  wet  ?  Examine  the  nose  of  a  fox-hound,  for 
instance ;  how  very  moist  and  sensitive  !  Cause  this 
moisture  to  dry  up,  and  the  dog  would  be  as  power- 
less to  track  an  animal  as  you  are  !  The  nose  of  the 
cat,  you  may  observe,  is  but  a  little  moist,  and,  as 
you  know,  her  sense  of  smell  is  far  inferior  to  that  of 
the  dog.  Moisten  your  own  nostrils  and  lips,  and 
this  sense  is  plainly  sharpened.  The  sweat  of  a  dog's 
nose,  therefore,  is  no  doubt  a  vital  element  in  its 
power,  and,  without  taking  a  very  long  logical  stride^ 
we  may  infer  how  a  damp,  rough  surface  aids  him  in 
tracking  game. 

A  fox  hunt  in  this  country  is,  of  course,  quite  a 
different  thing  from  what  it  is  in  England,  where  all 
the  squires  and  noblemen  of  a  borough,  superbly 
mounted,  go  riding  over  the  country,  guided  by  the 
yelling  hounds,  till  the  fox  is  literally  run  down  and 
murdered.  Here  the  hunter  prefers  a  rough,  mount- 
ainous country,  and,  as  probably  most  persons  know, 
takes  advantage  of  the  disposition  of  the  fox,  when 
pursued  by  the  hound,  to  play  or  circle  around  a  ridge 
or  bold  point,  and,  taking  his  stand  near  the  run-way, 
shoots  him  down. 

I  recently  had  the  pleasure  of  a  turn  with  some  ex- 
perienced hunters.  As  we  ascended  the  ridge  toward 


88  THE   FOX. 

the  mountain,  keeping  in  our  ears  the  uncertain  bay- 
ing of  the  hounds  as  they  slowly  unraveled  an  old 
trail,  my  companions  pointed  out  to  me  the  different 
run-ways,  —  a  gap  in  the  fence  here,  a  rock  just  below 
the  brow  of  the  hill  there,  that  tree  yonder  near  the 
corner  of  the  woods,  or  the  end  of  that  stone  wall 
looking  down  the  side  hill,  or  commanding  a  cow 
path,  or  the  outlet  of  a  wood  road.  A  half  wild  ap- 
ple orchard  near  a  cross  road  was  pointed  out  as  an 
invariable  run-way,  where  the  fox  turned  toward  the 
mountain  again,  after  having  been  driven  down  the 
ridge.  There  appeared  to  be  no  reason  why  the 
foxes  should  habituallp  pass  any  particular  point,  yet 
the  hunters  told  me  that  year  after  year  they  took 
about  the  same  turns,  each  generation'  of  foxes  run- 
ning through  the  upper  corner  of  that  field,  or  cross- 
ing the  valley  near  yonder  stone  wall,  when  pursued 
by  the  dog.  It  seems  the  fox  when  he  finds  himself 
followed  is  perpetually  tempted  to  turn  in  his  course, 
to  deflect  from  a  right  line,  as  a  person  would  un- 
doubtedly be  under  similar  circumstances.  If  he  is 
on  this  side  of  the  ridge,  when  he  hears  the  dog 
break  around  on  his  trail,  he  speedily  crosses  to  the 
other  side ;  if  he  is  in  the  fields  he  takes  again  to  the 
woods  ;  if  in  the  valley  he  hastens  to  the  high  land, 
and  evidently  enjoys  running  along  the  ridge  and  lis- 
tening to  the  dogs,  slowly  tracing  out  his  course  in 
the  fields  below.  At  such  times  he  appears  to  have 
but  one  sense,  hearing,  and  that  reverted  toward  his 
pursuers.  He  is  constantly  pausing,  looking  back 


THE   FOX.  89 

and  listening,  and  will  almost  run  over  the  hunter  if 
he  stands  still,  even  though  not  at  all  concealed. 

Animals  of  this  class  depend  far  less  upon  their 
sight  thau  upon  their  hearing  and  sense  of  smell. 
Neither  the  fox  nor  the  dog  is  capable  of  much  dis- 
crimination with  the  eye;  they  seem  to  see  things 
only  in  the  mass  ;  but  with  the  nose  they  can  analyze, 
and  define,  and  get  at  the  most  subtle  shades  of  differ- 
ence. The  fox  will  not  read  a  man  from  a  stump  or 
a  rock,  unless  he  gets  his  scent,  and  the  dog  does  not 
know  his  master  in  a  crowd  until  he  has  smelt  him. 

On  the  occasion  to  which  I  refer,  it  was  not  many 
minutes  after  the  dogs  entered  the  woods  on  the  side 
of  the  mountain,  before  they  gave  out  sharp  and 
eager,  and  we  knew  at  once  that  the  fox  was  started. 
We  were  then  near  a  point  that  had  been  designated 
as  a  sure  run-way,  and  hastened  to  get  into  position 
with  all  speed.  For  my  part  I  was  so  taken  with 
the  music  of  the  hounds  as  it  swelled  up  over  the 
ridge,  that  I  quite  forgot  the  game.  I  saw  one  of 
my  companions  leveling  his  gun,  and  looking  a  few 
rods  to  the  right,  saw  the  fox  coming  right  on  to 
us.  I  had  barely  time  to  note  the  silly  and  abashed 
expression  that  came  over  him  as  he  saw  us  in  his 
path,  when  he  was  cut  down  as  by  a  flash  of  light- 
ning. The  rogue  did  not  appear  frightened,  but 
ashamed  and  out  of  countenance  as  one  does  when 
some  trick  has  been  played  upon  him,  or  when  de- 
tected in  some  mischief. 

Late  in  the  afternoon,  as  we  were  passing  through 


90  THE   FOX. 

a  piece  of  woods  in  the  valley  below,  another  fox,  the 
third  that  day,  broke  from  his  cover  in  an  old  tree  top, 
under  our  very  noses,  and  drew  the  fire  of  three  of  our 
party,  myself  among  the  number,  but  thanks  to  the 
interposing  trees  and  limbs,  escaped  unhurt.  Then 
the  dogs  took  up  the  trail  and  there  was  lively  music 
again.  The  fox  steered  through  the  fields  direct  for 
the  ridge  where  we  had  passed  up  in  the  morning. 
We  knew  he  would  take  a  turn  here  and  then  point 
for  the  mountain,  and  two  of  us  with  the  hope  of  cut- 
ting him  off  by  the  old  orchard,  through  which  we 
were  again  assured  he  would  surely  pass,  made  a  pre- 
cipitous rush  for  that  point.  It  was  nearly  half  a 
mile  distant,  most  of  the  way  up  a  steep  side  hill,  and 
if  the  fox  took  the  circuit  indicated  he  would  proba- 
bly be  there  in  twelve  or  fifteen  minutes.  Running 
up  an  angle  of  45°  seems  quite  easy  work  for  a  four- 
footed  beast  like  a  dog  or  fox,  but  to  a  two-legged 
animal  like  a  man,  it  is  very  heavy  and  awkward. 
Before  I  got  half  way  up,  there  seemed  to  be  a  vac- 
uum all  about  me,  so  labored  was  my  breathing,  and 
when  I  reached  the  summit,  my  head  swam  and  my 
knees  were  about  giving  out,  but  pressing  on  I  had 
barely  time  to  reach  a  point  in  the  road  abreast  •  of 
the  orchard,  when  I  heard  the  hounds,  and  looking 
under  the  trees,  saw  the  fox,  leaping  high  above  the 
weeds  and  grass,  coming  straight  toward  me.  He 
evidently  had  not  got  over  the  first  scare,  which  our 
haphazard  fusilade  had  given  him,  and  was  making 
unusually  quick  time.  I  was  armed  with  a  rifle  and 


THE   FOX.  91 

said  to  myself  now  was  the  time  to  win  the  laurels  I 
had  coveted.  For  half  a  day  previous  I  had  been 
practicing  on  a  pumpkin  which  a  patient  youth  had 
rolled  down  a  hill  for  me  and  had  improved  my  shot 
considerably.  Now  a  yellow  pumpkin  was  coming 
which  was  not  a  pumpkin,  and  for  the  first  time  during 
the  day  opportunity  favored  me.  I  expected  the  fox 
to  cross  the  road  a  few  yards  below  me  but  just  then 
I  heard  him  whisk  through  the  grass,  and  he  bounded 
upon  the  fence  a  few  yards  above.  He  seemed  to 
cringe  as  he  saw  his  old  enemy,  and  to  depress  his 
fur  to  half  his  former  dimensions.  Three  bounds 
and  he  had  cleared  the  road,  when  my  bullet  tore  up 
the  sod  beside  him,  but  to  this  hour  I  do  not  know 
whether  I  looked  at  the  fox  without  seeing  my  gun, 
or  whether  I  did  sight  him  across  its  barrel.  I  only 
know  that  I  did  not  distinguish  myself  in  the  use  of 
the  rifle  on  that  occasion,  and  went  home  to  wreak 
my  revenge  upon  another  pumpkin.  But  without 
much  improvement  of  my  skill,  for,  a  few  days  after, 
another  fox  ran  under  my  very  nose  with  perfect 
impunity.  There  is  something  so  fascinating  in  the 
sudden  appearance  of  the  fox,  that  the  eye  is  quite 
mastered,  and  unless  the  instinct  of  the  sportsman  is 
very  strong  and  quick,  the  prey  will  slip  through  his 
grasp. 

A  still-hunt  rarely  brings  you  in  sight  of  a  fox,  as 
his  ears  are  much  sharper  than  yours,  and  his  tread 
much  lighter.  But  if  the  fox  is  mousing  in  the  fields, 
and  you  discover  him  before  he  does  you,  you  may, 


92  THE   FOX. 

the  wind  favoring,  call  him  within  a  few  paces  of  you. 
Secrete  yourself  behind  the  fence,  or  some  other  ob- 
"ject,  and  squeak  as  nearly  like  a  mouse  as  possible. 
Reynard  will  hear  the  sound  at  an  incredible  distance. 
Pricking  up  his  ears,  he  gets  the  direction,  and  comes 
trotting  along  as  unsuspiciously  as  can  be.  I  have 
never  had  an  opportunity  to  try  the  experiment,  but 
I  know  perfectly  reliable  persons  who  have.  One 
man,  in  the  pasture  getting  his  cows,  called  a  fox 
which  was  too  busy  mousing  to  get  the  first  sight, 
till  it  jumped  upon  the  wall  just  over  where  he  sat 
secreted.  Giving  a  loud  whoop  and  jumping  up  at 
the  same  time,  the  fox  came  as  near  being  frightened 
out  of  his  skin  as  I  suspect  a  fox  ever  was. 

In  trapping  for  the  fox,  you  get  perhaps  about  as 
much  "  fun "  and  as  little  fur,  as  in  any  trapping 
amusement  you  can  engage  in.  The  one  feeling  that 
ever  seems  present  to  the  mind  of  Reynard,  is  sus- 
picion. He  does  not  need  experience  to  teach  him, 
but  seems  to  know  from  the  jump  that  there  is  such 
a  thing  as  a  trap,  and  that  a  trap  has  a  way  of 
grasping  a  fox's  paw  that  is  more  frank  than  friendly. 
Cornered  in  a  hole  or  den,  a  trap  can  be  set  so  that 
the  poor  creature  has  the  desperate  alternative  of 
being  caught  or  starve.  He  is  generally  caught, 
though  not  till  he  has  braved  hunger  for  a  good 
many  days. 

But  to  know  all  his  cunning  and  shrewdness,  bait 
him  in  the  field,  or  set  your  trap  by  some  carcass 
where  he  is  wont  to  come.  In  some  cases  he  will 


THE  FOX.  93 

uncover  the  trap,  and  leave  the  marks  of  his  con- 
tempt for  it  in  a  way  you  cannot  mistake,  or  else  he 
will  not  approach  within  a  rod  of  it.  Occasionally, 
however,  he  finds  in  a  trapper  more  than  his  match, 
and  is  fairly  caught.  When  this  happens,  the  trap, 
which  must  be  of  the  finest  make,  is  never  touched 
with  the  bare  hand,  but,  after  being  thoroughly 
smoked  and  greased,  is  set  in  a  bed  of  dry  ashes,  or 
chaff,  in  a  remote  field  where  the  fox  has  been  em- 
boldened to  dig  for  several  successive  nights  for  mor- 
sels of  toasted  cheese. 

A  light  fall  of  snow  aids  the  trapper's  art  and  con- 
spires to  Reynard's  ruin.  But  how  lightly  he  is 
caught,  when  caught  at  all!  barely  the  end  of  his 
toes,  or  at  most  a  spike  through  the  middle  of  his 
foot.  I  once  saw  a  large  painting  of  a  fox  struggling 
with  a  trap  which  held  him  by  the  hind  leg,  above 
the  gambrel-joint !  A  painting  alongside  of  it  repre- 
sented a  peasant  driving  an  ox-team  from  the  off- 
side !  A  fox  would  be  as  likely  to  be  caught  above 
the  gambrel-joint  as  a  farmer  would  to  drive  his 
team  from  the  off-side.  I  knew  one  that  was  caught 
by  the  tip  of  the  lower  jaw.  He  came  nightly,  and 
took  the  morsel  of  cheese  from  the  pan  of  the  trap 
without  springing  it.  A  piece  was  then  secured  to 
the  pan  by  a  thread,  with  the  result  as  above  stated. 

I  have  never  been  able  to  see  clearly  why  the 
mother-fox  generally  selects  a  burrow  or  hole  in  the 
open  field  in  which  to  have  her  young,  except  it  be, 
as  some  hunters  maintain,  for  better  security.  The 


94  THE   FOX. 

young  foxes  are  wont  to  come  out  on  a  warm  day, 
and  play  like  puppies  in  front  of  the  den.  The  view 
being  unobstructed  on  all  sides  by  trees  or  bushes,  in 
the  cover  of  which  danger  might  approach,  they  are 
less  liable  to  surprise  and  capture.  On  the  slightest 
sound  they  disappear  in  the  hole.  Those  who  have 
watched  the  gambols  of  the  young  foxes,  speak  of 
them  as  very  amusing,  even  more  arch  and  playful 
than  those  of  kittens,  while  a  spirit  profoundly  wise 
and  cunning  seems  to  look  out  of  their  young  eyes. 
The  parent-fox  can  never  be  caught  in  the  den  with 
them,  but  is  hovering  near  the  woods,  which  are  al- 
ways at  hand,  and  by  her  warning  cry  or  bark  telling 
them  when  to  be  on  their  guard.  She  usually  has  at 
least  three  dens,  at  no  great  distance  apart,  and  moves 
stealthily  in  the  night  with  her  charge  from  one  to 
the  other,  so  as  to  mislead  her  enemies.  Many  a 
party  of  boys,  and  of  men,  too,  discovering  the  where- 
abouts of  a  litter,  have  gone  with  shovels  and  picks, 
and,  after  digging  away  vigorously  for  several  hours, 
have  found  only  an  empty  hole  for  their  pains.  The 
old  fox,  finding  her  secret  had  been  found  out,  had 
waited  for  darkness,  in  the  cover  of  which  to  transfer 
her  household  to  new  quarters ;  or  else  some  old  fox- 
hunter,  jealous  of  the  preservation  of  his  game,  and 
getting  word  of  the  intended  destruction  of  the  litter, 
had  gone  at  dusk  the  night  before,  and  made  some 
disturbance  about  the  den,  perhaps  flashed  some  pow- 
der in  its  mouth  —  a  hint  which  the  shrewd  animal 
knew  how  to  interpret. 


THE   FOX.  95 

The  more  scientific  aspects  of  the  question  may  not 
be  without  interest  to  some  of  my  readers.  The  fox 
belongs  to  the  great  order  of  flesh-eating  animals 
called  Carnivora,  and  to  the  family  called  Canidce,  or 
dogs.  The  wolf  is  a  kind  of  wild  dog,  and  the  fox 
is  a  kind  of  wolf.  Foxes,  unlike  wolves,  however, 
never  go  in  packs  or  companies,  but  hunt  singly. 
The  fox  has  a  kind  of  bark,  which  suggests  the  dog, 
as  have  all  the  members  of  this  family.  The  kinship 
is  further  shown  by  the  fact  that  during  certain  pe- 
riods, for  the  most  part  in  the  summer,  the  dog  can- 
not be  made  to  attack  or  even  pursue  the  female 
fox,  but  will  run  from  her  in  the  most  shamefaced 
manner,  which  he  will  not  do  in  the  case  of  any  other 
animal  except  a  wolf.  Many  of  the  ways  and  manners 
of  the  fox,  when  tamed,  are  also  like  the  dog's.  I 
once  saw  a  young  red  fox  exposed  for  sale  in  the 
market  in  Washington.  A  colored  man  had  him, 
and  said  he  had  caught  him  out  in  Virginia.  He  led 
him  by  a  small  chain,  as  he  would  a  puppy,  and 
the  innocent  young  rascal  would  lie  on  his  side  and 
bask  and  sleep  in  the  sunshine,  amid  all  the  noise 
and  chaffering  around  him,  precisely  like  a  dog. 
He  was  about  the  size  of  a  full-grown  cat,  and  there 
was  a  bewitching  beauty  about  him  that  I  could 
hardly  resist.  On  another  occasion,  I  saw  a  gray  fox 
about  two-thirds  grown,  playing  with  a  dog,  about 
the  same  size,  and  by  nothing  in  the  manners  of  either 
could  you  tell  which  was  the  dog  and  which  was  the 
fox. 


96  THE  FOX. 

Some  naturalists  think  there  are  but  two  perma- 
nent species  of  the  fox  in  the  United  States,  viz,  the 
gray  fox  and  the  red  fox,  though  there  are  five  or  six 
varieties.  The  gray  fox,  which  is  much  smaller  and 
less  valuable  than  the  red,  is  the  southern  species, 
and  is  said  to  be  rarely  found  north  of  Maryland, 
though  in  certain  rocky  localities  along  the  Hudson 
they  are  common. 

In  the  Southern  States  this  fox  is  often  hunted  in 
the  English  fashion,  namely,  on  horseback,  the  riders 
tearing  through  the  country  in  pursuit  till  the  ani- 
mal is  run  down  and  caught.  This  is  the  only  fox 
that  will  tree.  When  too  closely  pressed,  instead  of 
taking  to  a  den  or  hole,  it  climbs  beyond  the  reach 
of  the  dogs  in  some  small  tree. 

The  red  fox  is  the  northern  species,  and  is  rarely 
found  farther  south  than  the  mountainous  districts 
of  Virginia.  In  the  Arctic  regions  he  gives  place 
to  the  Arctic  fox  which  most  of  the  season  is  white. 

The  prairie  fox,  the  cross  fox,  and  the  black  or 
silver  gray  fox,  seem  only  varieties  of  the  red  fox,  as 
the  black  squirrel  breeds  from  the  gray,  and  the  black 
woodchuck  is  found  with  the  brown.  There  is  little 
to  distinguish  them  from  the  red,  except  the  color, 
though  the  prairie  fox  is  said  to  be  the  larger  of  the 
two. 

The  cross  fox  is  dark  brown  on  its  muzzle  and  ex- 
tremities, with  a  cross  of  red  and  black  on  its  shoul- 
ders and  breast,  which  peculiarity  of  coloring,  and  not 
any  trait  in  its  character,  gives  it  its  name.  They 


THE   FOX.  97 

are  very  rare,  and  few  hunters  have  ever  seen  one. 
The  American  Fur  Company  used  to  obtain  annu- 
ally from  fifty  to  one  hundred  skins.  The  skins  for- 
merly sold  for  twenty-five  dollars,  though  I  believe 
they  now  bring  only  about  five  dollars. 

The  black  or  silver  gray  fox  is  the  rarest  of  all, 
and  its  skin  the  most  valuable.  The  Indians  used  to 
estimate  it  equal  to  forty  beaver  skins.  The  great 
fur  companies  seldom  collect  in  a  single  season  more 
than  four  or  five  skins  at  any  one  post.  Most  of 
those  of  the  American  Fur  Company  come  from  the 
head  waters  of  the  Mississippi.  One  of  the  younger 
Audubons  shot  one  in  northern  New  York.  The  fox 
had  been  seen  and  fired  at  many  times  by  the  hunters 
of  the  neighborhood,  and  had  come  to  have  the  repu- 
tation of  leading  a  charmed  life,  and  of  being  invul- 
nerable to  anything  but  a  silver  bullet.  But  Audu- 
bon  brought  her  down  (for  it  was  a  female)  on  the 
second  trial.  She  had  a  litter  of  young  in  the  vicin- 
ity, which  he  also  dug  out,  and  found  the  nest  to  hold 
three  black  and  four  red  ones,  which  fact  settled  the 
question  with  him  that  black  and  red  often  have  the 
some  parentage,  and  are  in  truth  the  same  species. 

The  color  of  this  fox,  in  a  point-blank  view,  is 
black,  but  viewed  at  an  angle  it  is  a  dark  silver-gray, 
whence  has  arisen  the  notion  that  the  black  and  the 
silver-gray  are  distinct  varieties.  '  The  tip  of  the  tail 
is  always  white. 

In  almost  every  neighborhood  there  are  traditions 
of  this  fox,  and  it  is  the  dream  of  young  sportsmen ; 


98  THE  FOX. 

but  I  have  yet  to  meet  the  person  who  has  seen  one. 
I  should  go  well  to  the  north,  into  the  British  Pos- 
session, if  I  was  bent  on  obtaining  a  specimen. 

One  more  item  from  the  books.  From  the  fact 
that  in  the  bone  caves  in  this  country  skulls  of  the 
gray  fox  are  found,  but  none  of  the  red,  it  is  inferred 
by  some  naturalists  that  the  red  fox  is  a  descendant 
from  the  European  species,  which  it  resembles  in 
form  but  surpasses  in  beauty,  and  its  appearance  on 
this  continent  comparatively  of  recent  date. 


A  MARCH   CHRONICLE. 


A  MARCH  CHRONICLE. 

ON    THE   POTOMAC. 

MARCH  1.  —  The  first  day  of  spring  and  the  first 
spring  day  !  I  felt  the  change  the  moment  I  put  my 
head  out  of  doors  in  the  morning.  A  fitful,  gusty 
south  wind  was  blowing,  though  the  sky  was  clear. 
But  the  sunlight  was  not  the  same.  There  was  an 
interfusion  of  a  new  element.  Not  ten  days  since 
there  had  been  a  day  just  as  bright,  —  even  brighter 
and  warmer, — a  clear,  crystalline  day  of  February, 
with  nothing  vernal  in  it  ;  but  this  day  was  opaline  ; 
there  was  a  film,  a  sentiment  in  it,  a  nearer  approach 
to  life.  Then  there  was  that  fresh,  indescribable 
odor,  a  breath  from  the  Gulf,  or  from  Florida  and 
the  Carolinas,  —  a  subtle,  persuasive  influence  that 
thrilled  the  sense.  Every  root  and  rootlet  under 
ground  must  have  felt  it ;  the  buds  of  the  soft  maple 
and  silver  poplar  felt  it ;  and  swelled  perceptibly  dur- 
ing the  day.  The  robins  knew  it,  and  were  here  that 
morning ;  so  were  the  crow-blackbirds.  The  shad 
must  have  known  it,  down  deep  in  their  marine  re- 
treats, and  leaped  and  sported  about  the  mouths  of 


102  A  MARCH   CHRONICLE. 

the  rivers,  ready  to  dart  up  them  if  the  genial  influ- 
ence continued.  The  bees  in  the  hive  also,  or  in  the 
old  tree  in  the  woods,  no  doubt  awoke  to  new  life ; 
and  the  hibernating  animals,  the  bears  and  wood- 
chucks,  rolled  up  in  their  subterranean  dens,  —  I  im- 
agine the  warmth  reached  even  them,  and  quickened 
their  sluggish  circulation. 

Then  in  the  afternoon  there  was  the  smell  of  smoke, 
—  the  first  spring  fires  in  the  open  air.  The  Vir- 
ginia farmer  is  raking  together  the  rubbish  in  his 
garden,  or  in  the  field  he  is  preparing  for  the  plow, 
and  burning  it  up.  In  imagination  I  am  there  to 
help  him.  I  see  the  children  playing  about,  delighted 
with  the  sport  and  the  resumption  of  work;  the 
smoke  goes  up  through  the  shining  haze  ;  the  farm- 
house door  stands  open,  and  lets  in  the  afternoon  sun  ; 
the  cow  lows  for  her  calf,  or  hides  it  in  the  woods ; 
and  in  the  morning,  the  geese,  sporting  in  the  spring 
sun,  answer  the  call  of  the  wild  flock  steering  north- 
ward above  them. 

As  I  stroll  through  the  market  I  see  the  signs 
here.  That  old  colored  woman  has  brought  spring 
in  her  basket  in  those  great  green  flakes  of  moss, 
with  arbutus  showing  the  pink ;  and  her  old  man  is 
just  in  good  time  with  his  fruit-trees  and  gooseberry- 
bushes.  Various  bulbs  and  roots  are  also  being 
brought  out  and  offered,  and  the  onions  are  sprouting 
on  the  stands.  I  see  bunches  of  robins  and  cedar- 
birds  also  —  so  much  melody  and  beauty  cut  off  from 
the  supply  going  north.  The  fish  market  is  begin- 


A   MARCH   CHEONICLE.  103 

ning  to  be  bright  with  perch  and  bass,  and  with  shad 
from  the  southern  rivers,  and  wild  ducks  are  taking 
the  place  of  prairie-hens  and  quails. 

In  the  Carolinas,  no  doubt,  the  fruit-trees  are  in 
bloom,  and  the  rice-land  is  being  prepared  for  the 
seed.  In  the  mountains  of  Virginia  and  in  Ohio 
they  are  making  maple-sugar ;  in  Kentucky  and  Ten- 
nessee they  are  sowing  oats ;  in  Illinois  they  are, 
perchance,  husking  the  corn  which  has  remained  on 
the  stalk  in  the  field  all  winter.  Wild  geese  and 
ducks  are  streaming  across  the  sky  from  the  lower 
Mississippi  toward  the  great  lakes,  pausing  a  while 
on  the  prairies,  or  alighting  in  the  great  corn-fields, 
making  the  air  resound  with  the  noise  of  their  wings 
upon  the  stalks  and  dry  shucks  as  they  resume  their 
journey.  About  this  time,  or  a  little  later,  in  the 
still  spring  morning,  the  prairie-hens  or  prairie-cocks 
set  up  that  low  musical  cooing  or  crowing  that  defies 
the  ear  to  trace  or  locate.  The  air  is  filled  with  that 
soft,  mysterious  undertone ;  and  save  that  a  bird  is 
seen  here  and  there  flitting  low  over  the  ground,  the 
sportsman  walks  for  hours  without  coming  any  nearer 
the  source  of  the  elusive  sound. 

All  over  a  certain  belt  of  the  country  the  rivers 
and  streams  are  roily,  and  chafe  their  banks.  There 
is  a  movement  of  the  soils.  The  capacity  of  the 
water  to  take  up  and  hold  in  solution  the  salt  and 
earths,  seemed  never  so  great  before.  The  frost  has 
relinquished  its  hold,  and  turned  everything  over  to 
the  water.  Mud  is  the  mother  now ;  and  out  of  it 
creep  the  frogs,  the  turtles,  the  crawfish. 


104  A   MARCH  CHRONICLE. 

In  the  North  how  goes  the  season  ?  The  winter 
is  perchance  just  breaking  up.  The  old  frost-king  is 
just  striking,  or  preparing  to  strike,  his  tents.  The 
ice  is  going  out  of  the  rivers,  and  the  first  steamboat 
on  the  Hudson  is  picking  its  way  through  the  blue 
lanes  and  channels.  The  white  gulls  are  making  ex- 
cursions up  from  the  bay,  to  see  what  the  prospects 
are.  In  the  lumber  countries,  along  the  upper  Ken- 
nebec  and  Penobscot,  and  along  the  northern  Hudson, 
starters  are  at  work  with  their  pikes  and  hooks  start- 
ing out  the  pine  logs  on  the  first  spring  freshet.  All 
winter,  through  the  deep  snows,  they  have  been  haul- 
ing them  to  the  bank  of  the  stream,  or  placing  them 
where  the  tide  would  reach  them.  Now,  in  count- 
less numbers,  beaten  and  bruised,  the  trunks  of  the 
noble  trees  come,  borne  by  the  angry  flood.  The 
snow  that  furnishes  the  smooth  bed  over  which  they 
were  drawn,  now  melted,  furnishes  the  power  that 
carries  them  down  to  the  mills.  On  the  Delaware 
the  raftsmen  are  at  work  running  out  their  rafts. 
Floating  islands  of  logs  and  lumber  go  down  the 
swollen  stream,  bending  over  the  dams,  shooting 
through  the  rapids,  and  bringing  up  at  last  in  Phila- 
delphia or  beyond. 

In  the  inland  farming  districts  what  are  the  signs  ? 
Few  and  faint,  but  very  suggestive.  The  sun  has 
power  to  melt  the  snow ;  and  in  the  meadows  all  the 
knolls  are  bare,  and  the  sheep  are  gnawing  them  in- 
dustriously. The  drifts  on  the  side  hills  also  begin 
to  have  a  worn  and  dirty  look,  and  where  they  cross 


A  MARCH   CHRONICLE.  105 

the  highway,  to  become  soft,  letting  the  teams  in  up 
to  their  bellies.  The  oxen  labor  and  grunt,  or  pa- 
tiently wait  for  the  shovel  to  release  them  :  but  the 
spirited  horse  leaps  and  flounders,  and  is  determined 
not  to  give  up.  In  the  woods  the  snow  is  melted 
around  the  trees,  and  the  burs  and  pieces  of  bark 
have  absorbed  the  heat  till  they  have  sunk  half-way 
through  to  the  ground.  The  snow  is  melting  on  the 
under  side ;  the  frost  is  going  out  of  the  ground : 
now  comes  the  trial  of  your  foundations. 

About  the  farm-buildings  there  awakens  the  old 
familiar  chorus,  the  bleating  of  calves  and  lambs,  and 
the  answering  bass  of  their  distressed  mothers  ;  while 
the  hens  are  cackling  in  the  hay -loft,  and  the  geese  are 
noisy  in  the  spring  run.  But  the  most  delightful  of 
all  farm-work  or  of  all  rural  occupations,  is  at  hand, 
namely,  sugar-making.  In  New  York  and  northern 
New  England  the  beginning  of  this  season  varies 
from  the  first  to  the  middle  of  March,  sometimes  even 
holding  off  till  April.  The  moment  the  contest  be- 
tween the  sun  and  frost  fairly  begins,  sugar  weather 
begins ;  and  the  more  even  the  contest,  the  more  the 
sweet.  I  do  not  know  what  the  philosophy  of  it  is, 
but  it  seems  a  kind  of  see-saw,  as  if  the  sun  drew  the 
sap  up,  and  the  frost  drew  it  down  ;  and  an  excess  of 
either  stops  the  flow.  Before  the  sun  has  got  power 
to  unlock  the  frost,  there  is  no  sap  ;  and  after  the 
frost  has  lost  its  power  to  lock  up  again  the  work  of 
the  sun,  there  is  no  sap.  But  when  it  freezes  soundly 
at  night,  with  a  bright,  warm  sun  next  day,  wind  in 


106  A   MARCH   CHRONICLE. 

the  west,  and  no  signs  of  a  storm,  the  veins  of  the 
maples  fairly  thrill.  Pierce  the  bark  anywhere,  and 
out  gushes  the  clear,  sweet  liquid.  But  let  the  wind 
change  to  the  south,  and  blow  moist  and  warm,  des- 
troying that  crispness  of  the  air,  and  the  flow  slackens 
at  once,  unless  there  be  a  deep  snow  in  the  woods  to 
counteract  or  neutralize  the  warmth,  in  which  case 
the  run  may  continue  till  the  rain  sets  in.  The 
rough-coated  old  trees,  one  would  not  think  they 
could  scent  a  change  so  quickly  through  that  wrapper 
of  dead,  dry  bark  an  inch  or  more  thick.  I  have  to 
wait  till  I  put  my  head  out  of  doors,  and  feel  the  air 
on  my  bare  cheek,  and  sniff  it  with  my  nose ;  but 
their  nerves  of  taste  and  smell  are  no  doubt  under 
ground,  imbedded  in  the  moisture,  and  if  there  is  any- 
thing that  responds  quickly  to  atmospheric  changes  it 
is  water.  Do  not  the  fish,  think  you,  down  deep  in 
the  streams,  feel  every  wind  that  blows,  whether  it  be 
hot  or  cold  ?  Do  not  the  frogs  and  newts  and  turtles 
under  the  mud  feel  the  warmth,  though  the  water 
still  seems  like  ice  ?  As  the  springs  begin  to  rise  in 
advance  of  the  rain,  so  the  intelligence  of  every 
change  seems  to  travel  ahead  under  ground,  and 
forewarn  things. 

A  "  sap-run  "  seldom  lasts  more  than  two  or  three 
days.  By  that  time  there  is  a  change  in  the  weather, 
perhaps  a  rain-storm,  which  takes  the  frost  nearly  all 
out  of  the  ground.  Then  before  there  can  be  another 
run,  the  trees  must  be  wound  up  again,  the  storm 
must  have  a  white  tail,  and  "  come  off "  cold.  Pres- 


A   MARCH   CHRONICLE.  107 

ently  the  sun  rises  clear  again,  and  cuts  the  snow  or 
softens  the  hard  frozen  ground  with  his  beams,  and 
the  trees  take  a  fresh  start.  The  boys  go  through 
the  wood,  emptying  out  the  buckets  or  the  pans,  and 
reclaiming  those  that  have  blown  away,  and  the  de- 
lightful work  is  resumed.  But  the  first  run,  like  first 
love,  is  always  the  best,  always  the*  fullest,  always  the 
sweetest ;  while  there  is  a  purity  and  delicacy  of 
flavor  about  the  sugar  that  far  surpasses  any  sub- 
sequent yield. 

Trees  differ  much  in  the  quantity  as  well  as  in  the 
quality  of  sap  produced  in  a  given  season.  Indeed,  in 
a  bush  or  orchard  of  fifty  or  one  hundred  trees,  as 
wide  a  difference  may  be  observed  in  this  respect  as 
among  that  number  of  cows  in  regard  to  the  milk 
they  yield.  I  have  in  my  mind  now  a  "  sugar-bush  " 
nestled  in  the  lap  of  a  spur  of  the  Catskills,  every 
tree  of  which  is  known  to  me,  and  assumes  a  distinct 
individuality  in  my  thought.  I  know  the  look  and 
quality  of  the  whole  two  hundred ;  and  when  on  my 
annual  visit  to  the  old  homestead  I  find  one  has  per- 
ished, or  fallen  before  the  axe,  I  feel  a  personal  loss. 
They  are  all  veterans,  and  have  yielded  up  their  life's 
blood  for  the  profit  of  two  or  three  generations. 
They  stand  in  little  groups  or  couples.  One  stands 
at  the  head  of  a  spring-run,  and  lifts  a  large  dry 
branch  high  above  the  woods,  where  hawks  and  crows 
love  to  alight.  Half  a  dozen  are  climbing  a  little 
hill ;  while  others  stand  far  out  in  the  field,  as  if  they 
had  come  out  to  get  the  sun.  A  file  of  five  or  six 


108  A  MAECH  CHRONICLE. 

worthies  sentry  the  woods  on  the  northwest,  and  con- 
front a  steep  side  hill  where  sheep  and  cattle  graze. 
An  equal  number  crowd  up  to  the  line  on  the  east ; 
and  their  gray,  stately  trunks  are  seen  across  meadows 
or  fields  of  grain.  Then  there  is  a  pair  of  Siamese 
twins,  with  heavy,  bushy  tops,  while  in  the  forks  of 
a  wood-road  stand*  the  two  brothers,  with  their  arms 
around  each  other's  neck,  and  their  bodies  in  gentle 
contact  for  a  distance  of  thirty  feet. 

One  immense  maple,  known  as  the  "  old-cream- 
pan-tree,"  stands,  or  did  stand,  quite  alone  among  a 
thick  growth  of  birches  and  beeches.  But  it  kept  its 
end  up  and  did  the  work  of  two  or  three  ordinary 
trees,  as  its  name  denotes.  Next  to  it  the  best  milcher  • 
in  the  lot  was  a  shaggy-barked  tree  in  the  edge  of  the 
field,  that  must  have  been  badly  crushed  or  broken 
when  it  was  little,  for  it  had  an  ugly  crook  near  the 
ground,  and  seemed  to  struggle  all  the  way  up  to  get 
in  an  upright  attitude,  but  never  quite  succeeded ; 
yet  it  could  outrun  all  its  neighbors  nevertheless. 
The  poorest  tree  in  the  lot  was  a  short-bodied,  heavy- 
topped  tree,  that  stood  in  the  edge  of  a  spring-run. 
It  seldom  produced  half  a  gallon  of  sap  during  the 
whole  season  ;  but  this  half-gallon  was  very  sweet,  — 
three  or  four  times  as  sweet  as  the  ordinary  article. 
In  the  production  of  sap,  top  seems  far  less  important 
than  body.  It  is  not  length  of  limb  that  wins  in  this 
race,  but  length  of  trunk.  A  heavy,  bushy-topped  tree 
in  the  open  field,  for  instance,  will  not,  according  to 
my  observation,  compare  with  a  tall,  long-trunked 


A  MARCH   CHRONICLE.  109 

tree  in  the  woods,  that  has  but  a  small  top.  Young, 
thrifty,  thin-skinned  trees  start  up  with  great  spirit, 
indeed,  fairly  on  a  run ;  but  they  do  not  hold  out, 
and  their  blood  is  very  diluted.  Cattle  are  very  fond 
of  sap ;  so  are  sheep,  and  will  drink  enough  to  kill 
them.  The  honey-bees  get  here  their  first  sweet,  and 
the  earliest  bug  takes  up  his  permanent  abode  on  the 
"  spile."  The  squirrels  also  come  timidly  down  the 
trees,  and  sip  the  sweet  flow;  and  occasionally  an 
ugly  lizard,  just  out  of  its  winter-quarters,  and  in  quest 
of  novelties,  creeps  up  into  the  pan  or  bucket.  Soft 
maple  makes  a  very  fine  white  sugar,  superior  in  qual- 
ity, but  far  less  in  quantity. 

I  think  any  person  who  has  tried  it  will  agree  with 
me  about  the  charm  of  sugar-making,  though  he  have 
no  tooth  for  the  sweet  itself.  It  is  enough  that  it  is 
the  first  spring  work,  and  takes  one  to  the  woods. 
The  robins  are  just  arriving,  and  their  merry  calls 
ring  through  the  glades.  The  squirrels  are  now  vent- 
uring out,  and  the  woodpeckers  and  nuthatches  run 
briskly  up  the  trees.  The  crow  begins  to  caw,  with 
his  accustomed  heartiness  and  assurance ;  and  one 
sees  the  white  rump  and  golden  shafts  of  the  high- 
hole  as  he  flits  about  the  open  woods.  Next  week, 
or  the  week  after,  it  may  be  time  to  begin  plowing, 
and  other  sober  work  about  the  farm ;  but  this  week 
we  will  picnic  among  the  maples,  and  our  camp-fire 
shall  be  an  incense  to  spring.  Ah,  I  am  there  now  ! 
I  see  the  woods  flooded  with  sun-light ;  I  smell  the 
dry  leaves,  and  the  mould  under  them  just  quickened 


110  A  MARCH  CHRONICLE. 

by  the  warmth;  the  long-trunked  maples  in  their 
gray  rough  liveries  stand  thickly  about ;  I  see  the 
brimming  pans  and  buckets,  always  on  the  sunny  side 
of  the  trees,  and  hear  the  musical  dropping  of  the 
sap ;  the  "  boiling-place,"  with  its  delightful  camp- 
features,  is  just  beyond  the  first  line,  with  its  great 
arch  looking  to  the  southwest.  The  sound  of  its  axe 
rings  through  the  woods.  Its  huge  kettles  or  broad 
pans  boil  and  foam ;  and  I  ask  no  other  delight  than 
to  watch  and  tend  them  all  day,  to  dip  the  sap  from 
the  great  casks  into  them,  and  to  replenish  the  fire 
with  the  newly-cut  birch  and  beech  wood.  A  slight 
breeze  is  blowing  from  the  west ;  I  catch  the  glint 
here  and  there  in  the  afternoon  sun  of  the  little  rills 
and  creeks,  coursing  down  the  sides  of  the  hills ;  the 
awakening  sounds  about  the  farm  and  the  woods  reach 
my  ear;  and  every  rustle  or  movement  of  the  air  or 
on  the  earth  seems  like  a  pulse  of  returning  life  in 
Nature.  I  sympathize  with  that  verdant  Hibernian 
who  liked  sugar-making  so  well,  that  he  thought  he 
should  follow  it  the  whole  year.  I  should  at  least 
be  tempted  to  follow  the  season  up  the  mountains, 
camping  this  week  on  one  terrace,  next  week  on  one 
farther  up,  keeping  just  on  the  hem  of  Winter's  gar- 
ment, and  just  in  advance  of  the  swelling  buds,  until 
my  smoke  went  up  through  the  last  growth  of  maple 
that  surrounds  the  summit. 

Maple  sugar  is  peculiarly  an  American  product, 
the  discovery  of  it  dating  back  into  the  early  history 
of  New  England.  The  first  settlers  usually  caught 


A  MARCH   CHRONICLE.  Ill 

the  sap  in  rude  troughs,  and  boiled  it  down  in  ket- 
tles slung  to  a  pole  by  a  chain,  the  fire  being  built 
around  them.  The  first  step  in  the  way  of  improve- 
ment was  to  use  tin  pans  instead  of  troughs,  and  a 
large  stone  arch  in  which  the  kettles  or  caldrons  were 
set  with  the  fire  beneath  them.  But  of  late  years,  as 
the  question  of  fuel  lias  become  a  more  important 
one,  greater  improvements  have  been  made.  The 
arch  has  given  place  to  an  immense  stove  designed 
for  that  special  purpose ;  and  the  kettles  to  broad, 
shallow,  sheet-iron  pans,  the  object  being  to  econo- 
mize all  the  heat,  and  to  obtain  the  greatest  possible 
extent  of  evaporating  surface. 

March  15.  —  From  the  first  to  the  middle  of  March 
the  season,  made  steady  progress.  There  were  no 
checks,  no  drawbacks.  Warm,  copious  rains  from  the 
south  and  southwest,  followed  by  days  of  unbroken 
sunshine.  In  the  moist  places  —  and  what  places  are 
not  moist  at  this  season  ?  —  the  sod  buzzed  like  a 
hive.  The  absorption  and  filtration  among  the  net- 
work of  roots  was  an  audible  process. 

The  clod  fairly  sang.  How  the  trees  responded 
also  !  The  silver  poplars  were  masses  of  soft  gray 
bloom,  and  the  willows  down  toward  the  river  seemed 
to  have  slipped  off  their  old  bark  and  on  their  new 
in  a  single  night.  The  soft  maples,  too,  when  massed 
in  the  distance,  their  tops  deeply  dyed  in  a  bright 
maroon  color,  how  fair  they  looked ! 

The  15th  of  the  month  was  "  one  of  those  charmed 
days  when  the  genius  of  God  doth  flow."  The  wind 


112  A   MARCH   CHRONICLE. 

died  away  by  mid-forenoon,  and  the  day  settled  down 
so  softly  and  lovingly  upon  the  earth,  touching  every- 
thing, filling  everything.  The  sky  visibly  came  down. 
You  could  see  it  among  the  trees  and  between  the 
hills.  The  sun  poured  himself  into  the  earth  as  into 
a  cup,  and  the  atmosphere  fairly  swam  with  warmth 
and  light.  In  the  afternoon  I  walked  out  over  the 
country  roads  north  of  the  city.  Innumerable  columns 
of  smoke  were  going  up  all  around  the  horizon  from 
burning  brush  and  weeds,  fields  being  purified  by  fire. 
The  farmers  were  hauling  out  manure  ;  and  I  am  free 
to  confess,  the  odor  of  it,  with  its  associations  of  the 
farm  and  the  stable,  of  cattle  and  horses,  was  good  in 
my  nostrils.  In  the  woods  the  liverleaf  and  arbutus 
had  just  opened  doubtingly ;  and  in  the  little  pools 
great  masses  of  frogs'  spawn,  with  a  milky  tinge,  were 
deposited.  The  youth  who  accompanied  me  brought 
some  of  it  home  in  his  handkerchief,  to  see  it  hatch 
in  a  goblet. 

The  month  came  in  like  a  lamb,  and  went  out  like 
a  lamb,  setting  at  naught  the  old  adage.  The  white 
fleecy  clouds  lay  here  and  there,  as  if  at  rest,  on  the 
blue  sky.  The  fields  were  a  perfect  emerald  ;  and 
the  lawns,  with  the  new  gold  of  the  first  dandelions 
sprinkled  about,  were  lush  with  grass.  In  the  parks 
and  groves  there  was  a  faint  mist  of  foliage,  except 
among  the  willows,  where  there  was  not  only  a  mist, 
but  a  perfect  fountain-fall  of  green.  In  the  distance 
the  river  looked  blue  ;  the  spring  freshets  at  last 
over  ;  and  the  ground  settled,  and  the  jocund  season 
sets  forth  into  April  with  a  bright  and  confident  look. 


AUTUMN   TIDES. 


AUTUMN  TIDES. 

THE  season  is  always  a  little  behind  the  sun  in  our 
climate,  just  as  the  tide  is  always  a  little  behind  the 
moon.  According  to  the  calendar,  the  summer  ought 
to  culminate  about  the  21st  of  June,  but  in  reality  it 
is  some  weeks  later ;  June  is  a  maiden  month  all 
through.  It  is  not  high  noon  in  nature  till  about  the 
first  or  second  week  in  July.  When  the  chestnut- 
tree  blooms,  the  meridian  of  the  year  is  reached.  By 
the  first  of  August,  it  is  fairly  one  o'clock.  The  lus- 
tre of  the  season  begins  to  dim,  the  foliage  of  the 
trees  and  woods  to  tarnish,  the  plumage  of  the  birds 
to  fade,  and  their  songs  to  cease.  The  hints  of  ap- 
proaching fall  are  on  every  hand.  How  suggestive 
this  thistle-down,  for  instance,  which,  as  I  sit  by  the 
open  window,  comes  in  and  brushes  softly  across  my 
hand  !  The  first  snow-flake  tells  of  winter  not  more 
plainly  than  this  driving  down  heralds  the  approach 
of  fall.  Come  here,  my  fairy,  and  tell  me  whence 
you  come  and  whither  you  go?  What  brings  you 
to  port  here,  you  gossamer  ship  sailing  the  great 
sea  ?  How  exquisitely  frail  and  delicate  !  One  of 
the  lightest  things  in  nature ;  so  light  that  in  the 


116  AUTUMN   TIDES. 

closed  room  here  it  will  hardly  rest  iu  my  open  palm. 
A  feather  is  a  clod  beside  it.  '  Only  a  spider's  web 
will  hold  it ;  coarser  objects  have  no  power  over  it. 
Caught  in  the  upper  currents  of  the  air  and  rising 
above  the  clouds,  it  might  sail  perpetually.  Indeed, 
one  fancies  it  might  almost  traverse  the  interstellar 
ether  and  drive  against  the  stars.  And  every  thistle- 
head  by  the  road-side  holds  hundreds  of  these  sky- 
rovers  —  imprisoned  Ariels  unable  to  set  themselves 
free.  Their  liberation  may  be  by  the  shock  of  the  wind, 
or  the  rude  contact  of  cattle,  but  it  is  oftener  the 
work  of  the  goldfinch  with  its  complaining  brood. 
The  seed  of  the  thistle  is  the  proper  food  of  this  bird, 
and  in  obtaining  it,  myriads  of  these  winged  creatures 
are  scattered  to  the  breeze.  Each  one  is  fraught 
with  a  seed  which  it  exists  to  sow,  but  its  wild  ca- 
reering and  soaring  does  not  fairly  begin  till  its  bur- 
den is  dropped,  and  its  spheral  form  is  complete. 
The  seeds  of  many  plants  and  trees  are  disseminated 
through  the  agency  of  birds  ;  but  the  thistle  furnishes 
its  own  birds,  —  flocks  of  them,  with  wings  more 
ethereal  and  tireless  than  were  ever  given  to  mortal 
creature.  From  the  pains  Nature  thus  takes  to  sow 
the  thistle  broadcast  over  the  land,  it  might  be  ex- 
pected to  be  one  of  the  most  troublesome  and  abun- 
dant of  weeds.  But  such  is  not  the  case ;  the  more 
pernicious  and  baffling  weeds,  like  snapdragon  or 
blind-nettles,  being  more  local  and  restricted  in  their 
habits,  arid  unable  to  fly  at  all. 

In  the  fall,  the  battles  of   the  spring  are  fought 


AUTUMN   TIDES.  117 

over  again,  beginning  at  the  other,  or  little  end  of 
the  series.  There  is  the  same  advance  and  retreat, 
with  many  feints  and  alarms,  between  the  contend- 
ing forces  that  was  witnessed  in  April  and  May. 
The  spring  comes  like  a  tide  running  against  a  strong 
wind  ;  it  is  ever  beaten  back,  but  ever  gaining  ground, 
with  now  and  then  a  mad  "  push  upon  the  land  "  as 
if  to  overcome  its  antagonist  at  one  blow.  The  cold 
from  the  north  encroaches  upon  us  in  about  the  same 
fashion.  In  September  or  early  in  October  it  usually 
makes  a  big  stride  forward  and  blackens  all  the 
more  delicate  plants,  and  hastens  the  "  mortal  ripen- 
ing "of  the  foliage  of  the  trees,  but  it  is  presently 
beaten  back  again  and  the  genial  \varmth  repossesses 
the  land.  Before  long,  however,  the  cold  returns  to 
the  charge  with  augmented  forces  and  gains  much 
ground. 

The  course  of  the  seasons  never  do  run  smooth, 
owing  to  the  unequal  distribution  of  land  and  water, 
mountain,  wood,  and  plain. 

An  equilibrium,  however,  is  usually  reached  in  our 
climate  in  October,  sometimes  the  most  marked  in 
November,  forming  the  delicious  Indian  summer ;  a 
truce  is  declared  and  both  forces,  heat  and  cold,  meet 
and  mingle  in  friendly  converse  on  the  field.  In  the 
earlier  season,  this  poise  of  the  temperature,  this 
slack  water  in  nature,  comes  in  May  and  June ;  but 
the  October  calm  is  most  marked.  Day  after  day, 
and  sometimes  week  after  week,  you  cannot  tell  which 
way  the  current  is  setting.  Indeed,  there  is  no  cur-' 


118  AUTUMN   TIDES. 

rent,  but  the  season  seems  to  drift  a  little  this  way, 
or  a  little  that,  just  as  the  breeze  happens  to  freshen 
a  little  in  one  quarter  or  the  other.  The  fall  of  '74 
was  the  most  remarkable  in  this  respect  I  remember 
ever  to  have  seen.  The  equilibrium  of  the  season 
lasted  from  the  middle  of  October  till  near  December, 
with  scarcely  a  break.  There  were  six  weeks  of  In- 
dian summer,  all  gold  by  day,  and  when  the  moon 
came,  all  silver  by  night.  The  river  was  so  smooth 
at  times  as  to  be  almost  invisible,  and  in  its  place, 
was  the  indefinite  continuation  of  the  opposite  shore 
down  toward  the  nether  world.  One  seemed  to  be  in 
an  enchanted  land,  and  to  breath  all  day  the  atmos- 
phere of  fable  and  romance.  Not  a  smoke,  but  a 
kind  of  shining  nimbus  filled  all  the  spaces.  The 
vessels  would  drift  by  as  if  in  mid  air  with  all  their 
sails  set.  The  gypsy  blood  in  one,  as  Lowell  calls  it, 
could  hardly  stay  between  four  walls  and  see  such 
days  go  by.  Living  in  tents,  in  groves  and  on  the 
hills,  seemed  the  only  natural  life. 

Late  in  December  we  had  glimpses  of  the  same 
weather,  —  the  earth  had  not  yet  passed  all  the  golden 
isles.  On  the  27th  of  that  month,  L  find  I  made  this 
entry  in  my  note-book  :  "  A  soft  hazy  day,  the  year 
asleep  and  dreaming  of  the  Indian  summer  again. 
Not  a  breath  of  air  and  not  a  ripple  on  the  river. 
The  sunshine  is  hot  as  it  falls  across  my  table." 

But  what  a  terrible  winter  followed !  what  a  sav- 
age chief  the  fair  Indian  maiden  gave  birth  to ! 

This  halcyon  period  of  our  autumn  will  always  in 


AUTUMN   TIDES.  119 

some  way  be  associated  with  the  Indian.  It  is  red 
and  yellow  and  dusky  like  him.  The  smoke  of  his 
camp-fire  seems  again  in  the  air.  The  memory  of 
him  pervades  the  woods.  His  plumes  and  moccasins 
and  blanket  of  skins  form  just  the  costume  the  seaso/i 
demands.  It  was  doubtless  his  chosen  period.  The 
gods  smiled  upon  him  then  if  ever.  The  time  of  the 
chase,  the  season  of  the  buck  and  the  doe,  and  of  the 
ripening  of  all  forest  fruits ;  the  time  when  all  men 
are  incipient  hunters,  when  the  first  frosts  have  given 
pungency  to  the  air,  when  to  be  abroad  on  the  hills 
or  in  the  woods  is  a  delight  that  both  old  and  young 
feel,  —  if  the  red  aborigine  ever  had  his  summer  of 
fullness  and  contentment,  it  must  have  been  at  this 
season,  and  it  fitly  bears  his  name. 

In  how  many  respects  fall  imitates  or  parodies  the 
spring ;  it  is  indeed,  in  some  of  its  features,  a  sort  of 
second  youth  of  the  year.  Things  emerge  and  be- 
come conspicuous  again.  The  trees  attract  all  eyes 
as  in  May.  The  birds  come  forth  from  their  summer 
privacy  and  parody  their  spring  reunions  and  rival- 
ries ;  some  of  them  sing  a  little  after  a  silence  of 
months.  The  robins,  bluebirds,  meadow-larks,  spar- 
rows, crows  —  all  sport,  and  call,  and  behave  in  a 
manner  suggestive  of  spring.  The  cock  grouse 
drums  in  the  woods  as  he  did  in  April  and  May. 
The  pigeons  reappear,  and  the  wild  geese  and  ducks. 
The  witch-hazel  blooms.  The  trout  spawns.  The 
streams  are  again  full.  The  air  is  humid,  and  the 
moisture  rises  in  the  ground.  Nature  is  breaking 
camp,  as  in  spring  she  was  going  into  camp.  The 


120  AUTUMN   TIDES. 

spring  yearning  and  restlessness  is  represented  in  one 
by  the  increased  desire  to  travel. 

Spring  is  the  inspiration,  fall  the  expiration.  Both 
seasons  have  their  equinoxes,  both  their  filmy,  hazy 
air,  their  ruddy  forest  tints,  their  cold  rains,  their 
drenching  fogs,  their  mystic  moons;  both  have  the 
same  solar  light  and  warmth,  the  same  rays  of  the 
sun ;  yet,  after  all,  how  different  the  feelings  which 
they  inspire!  One  is  the  morning,  the  other  the 
evening ;  one  is  youth,  the  other  is  age. 

The  difference  is  not  merely  in  us ;  there  is  a  sub- 
tle difference  in  the  air  and  in  the  influences  that 
emanate  upon  us  from  the  dumb  forms  of  nature. 
All  the  senses  report  a  difference.  The  sun  seems  to 
have  burned  out.  One  recalls  the  notion  of  Herod- 
otus, that  he  is  grown  feeble,  and  retreats  to  the  south 
because  he  can  no  longer  face  the  cold  and  the  storms 
from  the  north.  There  is  a  growing  potency  about 
his  beams  in  spring ;  a  waning  splendor  about  them 
in  fall.  One  is  the  kindling  fire ;  the  other  the  sub- 
siding flame. 

It  is  rarely  that  an  artist  succeeds  in  painting  un- 
mistakably the  difference  between  sunrise  and  sunset ; 
and  it  is  equally  a  trial  of  his  skill  to  put  upon  can- 
vas the  difference  between  early  spring  and  late  fall, 
say  between  April  and  November.  It  was  long  ago 
observed  that  the  shadows  are  more  opaque  in  the 
morning  than  in  the  evening ;  the  struggle  between 
the  light  and  the  darkness  more  marked,  the  gloom 
more  solid,  the  contrasts  more  sharp,  etc.  The  rays 
of  the  morning  sun  chisel  out  and  cut  down  the  shad- 


AUTUMN   TIDES.  121 

ows  in  a  way  those  of  the  setting  sun  do  not.  Then 
the  sunlight  is  whiter  and  newer  in  the  morning,  — 
not  so  yellow  and  diffused.  A  difference  akin  to  this 
is  true  of  the  two  seasons  I  am  speaking  of.  The 
spring  is  the  morning  sunlight,  clear  and  determined; 
the  autumn  the  afternoon  rays,  pensive,  lessening, 
golden. 

Does  not  the  human  frame  yield  to  and  sympa- 
thize with  the  seasons  ?  Are  there  not  more  births 
in  the  spring  and  more  deaths  in  the  fall  ?  In  the 
spring  one  vegetates ;  his  thoughts  turn  to  sap ;  an- 
other kind  of  activity  seizes  him ;  he  makes  new 
wood  which  does  not  harden  till  past  midsummer. 
For  my  part,  I  find  all  literary  work  irksome  from 
April  to  August ;  my  sympathies  run  in  other  chan- 
nels ;  the  grass  grows  where  meditation  walked.  As 
fall  approaches,  the  currents  mount  to  the  head  again. 
But  my  thoughts  do  not  ripen  well  till  after  there  has 
been  a  frost.  The  burrs  will  not  open  much  before 
that.  A  man's  thinking,  I  take  it,  is  a  kind  of  com- 
bustion, as  is  the  ripening  of  fruits  and  leaves,  and  he 
wants  plenty  of  oxygen  in  the  air. 

Then  the  earth  seems  to  have  become  a  positive 
magnet  in  the  fall ;  the  forge  and  anvil  of  the  sun 
have  had  their  effect.  In  the  spring  it  is  negative  to 
all  intellectual  conditions  and  drains  one  of  his  light- 
ning. 

To-day,  October  21st,  I  found  the  air  in  the  bushy 
fields  and  lanes  under  the  woods  loaded  with  the  per- 
fume of  the  witch-hazel  —  a  sweetish,  sickening  odor. 
With  the  blooming  of  this  bush,  Nature  says,  "  posi- 


122  AUTUMN  TIDES. 

tively  the  last".  It  is  a  kind  of  birth  in  death,  of 
spring  in  fall,  that  impresses  one  as  a  little  uncanny. 
All  trees  and  shrubs  form  their  flower  buds  in  the 
fall,  and  keep  the  secret  till  spring.  How  comes  the 
witch-hazel  to  be  the  one  exception  and  to  celebrate 
its  floral  nuptials  on  the  funereal  day  of  its  foliage  ? 
No  doubt  it  will  be  found  that  the  spirit  of  some  love- 
lorn squaw  has  passed  into  this  bush,  and  that  this  is 
why  it  blooms  in  the  Indian  summer  rather  than  in 
the  white  man's  spring. 

But  it  makes  the  floral  series  of  the  woods  com- 
plete. Between  it  and  the  shad-blow  of  earliest  spring 
lies  the  mountain  of  bloom;  the  latter  at  the  base  on 
one  side,  this  at  the  base  on  the  other,  with  the  chest- 
nut blossoms  at  the  top  in  midsummer. 

A  peculiar  feature  of  our  fall  may  sometimes  be 
seen  of  a  clear  afternoon  late  in  the  season.  Look- 
ing athwart  the  fields  under  the  sinking  sun  the 
ground  appears  covered  with  a  shining  veil  of  gos- 
samer. A  fairy  net,  invisible  at  mid-day  and  which 
the  position  of  the  sun  now  reveals,  rests  upon  the 
stubble  and  upon  the  spears  of  grass,  covering  acres 
in  extent,  —  the  work  of  innumerable  little  spiders. 
The  cattle  walk  through  it  but  do  not  seem  to 
break  it.  Perhaps  a  fly  would  make  his  mark  upon 
it.  At  the  same  time,  stretching  from  the  tops  of  the 
trees,  or  from  the  top  of  a  stake  in  the  fence,  and 
leading  off  toward  the  sky  may  be  seen  the  cables  of 
the  flying  spider,  —  a  fairy  bridge  from  the  visible  to 
the  invisible.  Occasionally  seen  against  a  deep  mass 
of  shadow,  and  perhaps  enlarged  by  clinging  particles 


AUTUMN   TIDES.  123 

of  dust,  they  show  quite  "plainly  and  sag  down  like  a 
stretched  rope,  or  sway  and  undulate  like  a  hawser 
in  the  tide. 

They  recall  a  verse  of  our  rugged  poet,  Walt  Whit- 
man :  — 

"  A  noiseless  patient  spider, 

I  mark'd  where,  in  a  little  promontory,  it  stood  isolated  : 
Mark'd  how,  to  explore  the  vacant,  vast  surrounding, 
It  launch'd  forth  filament,  filament,  filament  out  of  itself ; 
Ever  unreeling  them  —ever  tirelessly  spreading  them. 

"  And  you,  0  my  soul,  where  you  stand, 
Surrounded,  surrounded,  in  measureless  oceans  of  space, 
Ceaselessly  musing,  venturing,  throwing.  — 
Seeking  the  spheres  to  connect  them. 
Till  the  bridge  you  will  need  be  formed  —  till  the  ductile  anchor 

hold; 
Till  the  gossamer  thread  you  fling,  catch  somewhere,  0  my  soul." 

To  return  a  little,  September  may  be  described  as 
the  month  of  tall  weeds.  Where  they  have  been  suf- 
fered to  stand,  along  fences,  by  road-sides,  and  in  for- 
gotten comers,  —  red-root,  pig-weed,  rag- weed,  ver- 
vain, golden-rod,  burdock,  elecampane,  thistles,  teasels, 
nettles,  asters,  etc.,  —  how  they  lift  themselves  up  as  if 
not  afraid  to  be  seen  now !  They  are  all  outlaws ;  every 
man's  hand  is  against  them ;  yet  how  surely  they  hold 
their  own  !  They  love  the  road-side,  because  here 
they  are  comparatively  safe ;  and  ragged  and  dusty, 
like  the  common  tramps  that  they  are,  they  form  one 
of  the  characteristic  features  of  early  fall. 

I  have  often  noticed  in  what  haste  certain  weeds 
are  at  times  to  produce  their  seeds.  Red-root  will 
grow  three  or  four  feet  high  when  it  has  the  whole 


124  AUTUMN   TIDES. 

season  before  it ;  but  let  it  get  a  late  start,  let  it  come 
up  in  August,  and  it  scarcely  gets  above  the  ground 
before  it  heads  out  and  apparently  goes  to  work  with 
all  its  might  and  main  to  mature  its  seed.  In  the 
growth  of  most  plants  or  weeds,  April  and  May  rep- 
resent their  root.  June  and  July  their  stalk,  and  Au- 
gust and  September  their  flower  and  seed.  Hence 
when  the  stalk  months  are  stricken  out  as  in  the  pres- 
ent case  there  is  only  time  for  a  shallow  root  and  a 
foreshortened  head.  I  think  most  weeds  that  get  a 
late  start  show  this  curtailment  of  stalk  and  this  solici- 
tude to  reproduce  themselves.  But  I  have  not  ob- 
served that  any  of  the  cereals  are  so  worldly  wise. 
They  have  not  had  to  think  and  shift  for  themselves 
as  the  weeds  have.  It  does  indeed  look  like  a  kind 
of  forethought  in  the  red-root.  It  is  killed  by  the 
first  frost,  and  hence  knows  the  danger  of  delay. 

How  rich  in  color,  before  the  big  show  of  the  tree 
foliage  has  commenced,  our  road-sides  are  in  places  in 
early  autumn,  —  rich  to  the  eye  that  goes  hurriedly 
by  and  does  not  look  too  closely,  —  with  the  profu- 
sion of  golden-rod  and  blue  and  purple  asters  dashed 
in  upon  here  and  there  with  the  crimson  leaves  of 
the  dwarf  sumac ;  and  at  intervals,  rising  out  of  the 
fence  corner  or  crowning  a  ledge  of  rocks,  the  dark 
green  of  the  cedars  with  the  still  fire  of  the  woodbine 
at  its  heart.  I  wonder  if  the  way-sides  of  other  lands 
present  any  analogous  spectacles  at  this  season. 

Then  when  the  maples  have  burst  out  into  color, 
showing  like  great  bonfires  along  the  hills,  there  is  in- 
deed a  feast  for  the  eye.  A  maple  before  your  win- 


AUTUMN   TIDES.  125 

clows  in  October,  when  the  sun  shines  upon  it,  will 
make  up  for  a  good  deal  of  the  light  it  has  excluded  ; 
it  nils  the  room  with  a  soft  golden  glow. 

Thoreau,  I  believe,  was  the  first  to  remark  upon 
the  individuality  of  trees  of  the  same  species  with  re- 
spect to  their  foliage,  —  some  maples  ripening  their 
leaves  early  and  some  late,  and  some  being  of  one  tint 
and  some  of  another ;  and  moreover,  that  each  tree 
held  to  the  same  characteristics,  year  after  year. 
There  is  indeed  as  great  a  variety  among  the  maples 
as  among  the  trees  of  an  apple  orchard ;  some  are 
harvest  apples,  some  are  fall  apples,  and  some  are 
winter  apples,  each  with  a  tint  of  its  own.  Those 
late  ripeners  are  the  winter  varieties  —  the  Rhode 
Island  greenings  or  swaars  of  their  kind.  The  red 
maple  is  the  early  astrachan.  Then  comes  the  red- 
streak,  the  yellow-sweet,  and  others.  There  are  wind- 
falls among  them  too,  as  among  the  apples,  and  one 
side  or  hemisphere  of  the  leaf  is  usually  brighter 
than  the  other. 

The  ash  has  been  less  noticed  for  its  autumnal  foli- 
age than  it  deserves.  The  richest  shades  of  plum 
color  to  be  seen  —  becoming  by  and  by,  or,  in  certain 
lights,  a  deep  maroon  —  are  afforded  by  this  tree. 
Then  at  a  distance  there  seems  to  be  a  sort  of 
bloom  upon  it  as  upon  the  grape  or  plum.  Amid  a 
grove  of  yellow  maple,  it  makes  a  most  pleasing  con- 
trast. 

By  mid-October,  most  of  the  Rip  Yan  Winkles 
among  our  brute  creatures  have  laid  down  for  their 
winter  nap.  The  toads  and  turtles  have  buried  them- 


126  AUTUMN   TIDES. 

selves  in  the  earth.  The  woodchuck  is  in  his  'hiber- 
naciilum,  the  skunk  in  his,  the  mole  in  his  ;  and  the 
black  bear  has  his  selected,  and  will  go  in  when  the 
snow  comes.  He  does  not  like  the  looks  of  his  big 
tracks  in  the  snow.  They  publish  his  goings  and 
comings  too  plainly.  The  coon  retires  about  the 
same  time.  The  provident  wood-mice  and  the  chip- 
munk are  laying  by  a  winter  supply  of  nuts  or  grain, 
the  former  usually  in  decayed  trees,  the  latter  in  the 
ground.  I  have  observed  that  any  unusual  disturb- 
ance in  the  woods,  near  where  the  chipmunk  has  his 
den,  will  cause  him  to  shift  his  quarters.  One  Octo- 
ber, for  many  successive  days  I  saw  one  carrying  into 
his  hole  buckwheat  which  he  had  stolen  from  a  near 
field.  The  hole  was  only  a  few  rods  from  where  we 
were  getting  out  stone,  and  as  our  work  progressed 
and  the  racket  and  uproar  increased,  the  chipmunk 
became  alarmed.  He  ceased  carrying  in,  and  after 
much  hesitating  and  darting  about,  and  some  pro- 
longed absences,  he  began  to  carry  out;  he  had  de- 
termined to  move ;  if  the  mountain  fell,  he,  at  least, 
would  be  away  in  time.  So  by  mouthfuls,  or  cheek- 
fuls,  the  grain  was  transferred  to  a  new  place.  He 
did  not  make  a  "  bee"  to  get  it  done,  but  carried  it  all 
himself,  occupying  several  days,  and  making  a  trip 
about  every  ten  minutes. 

The  red  and  gray  squirrels  do  not  lay  by  winter 
stores  ;  their  cheeks  are  made  without  pockets,  and 
whatever  they  transport's  carried  in  the  teeth.  They 
are  more  or  less  active  all  winter,  but  October  and 
November  are  their  festal  months.  Invade  some  but- 


AUTUMN   TIDES.  127 

ternut  or  hickory -nut  grove  on  a  frosty  October 
morning,  and  hear  the  red  squirrel  beat  the  "  juba" 
on  a  horizontal  branch.  It  is  a  most  lively  jig,  what 
the  boys  call  a  "  regular  break-down,"  interspersed 
with  squeals  and  snickers  and  derisive  laughter.  The 
most  noticeable  peculiarity  about  the  vocal  part  of  it 
is  the  fact  that  it  is  a  kind  of  duet.  In  other  words, 
by  some  ventriloqual  tricks  he  appears  to  accompany 
himself,  as  if  his  voice  split  up,  a  part  forming  a  low 
guttural  sound,  and  a  part  a  shrill  nasal  sound. 

The  distant  bark  of  the  more  wary  gray  squirrel 
may  be  heard  about  the  same  time.  There  is  a  teas- 
ing and  ironical  tone  in  it  also,  but  the  gray  squirrel 
is  not  the  Puck  the  red  is. 

Insects  also  go  into  winter-quarters  by  or  before 
this  time  ;  the  bumble-bee,  hornet,  and  wasp.  But 
here  only  royalty  escapes ;  the  queen-mother  alone 
foresees  the  night  of  winter  coming  and  the  morning 
of  spring  beyond.  The  rest  of  the  tribe  try  gypsying 
for  a  while,  but  perish  in  the  first  frosts.  The  present 
October  I  surprised  the  queen  of  the  yellow-jackets 
in  the  woods  looking  out  a  suitable  retreat.  The 
royal  dame  was  house-hunting,  and  on  being  dis- 
turbed by  my  inquisitive  poking  among  the  leaves, 
she  got  up  and  flew  away  with  a  slow,  deep  hum. 
Her  body  was  unusually  distended,  whether  with  fat 
or  eggs  I  am  unable  to  say.  In  September  I  took 
down  the  nest  of  the  black  hornet  and  found  several 
large  queens  in  it,  but  the  workers  had  all  gone. 
The  queens  were  evidently  weathering  the  first  frosts 
and  storms  here,  and  waiting  for  the  Indian  summer 


128  AUTUMN   TIDES. 

to  go  forth  and  seek  a  permanent  winter  abode.  If 
the  covers  could  be  taken  off  the  fields  and  woods  at 
this  season,  how  many  interesting  facts  of  natural 
history  would  be  revealed  !  The  crickets,  ants,  bees, 
reptiles,  animals,  and,  for  aught  I  know,  the  spiders 
and  flies  asleep  or  getting  ready  to  sleep  in  their  win- 
ter dormitories  ;  the  fires  of  life  banked  up  and  burn- 
ing just  enough  to  keep  the  spark  over  till  spring. 

The  fish  all  run  down  the  stream  in  the  fall  except 
the  trout ;  it  runs  up  or  stays  up  and  spawns  in  No- 
vember, the  male  becoming  as  brilliantly  tinted  as 
the  deepest  dyed  maple  leaf.  I  have  often  wondered 
why  the  trout  spawns  in  the  fall  instead  of  in  the 
spring,  like  other  fish.  Is  it  not  because  a  full  supply 
of  clear  spring  water  can  be  counted  on  at  that  season 
more  than  at  any  other  ?  The  brooks  are  not  so 
liable  to  be  suddenly  muddied  by  heavy  showers  and 
defiled  with  the  washings  of  the  roads  and  fields  as 
they  are  in  spring  and  summer.  The  artificial  breeder 
finds  that  absolute  purity  of  water  is  necessary  to 
hatch  the  spawn  ;  also  that  shade  and  a  low  tempera- 
ture are  indispensable. 

Our  northern  November  day  itself  is  like  spring 
water.  It  is  melted  frost,  dissolved  snow.  There  is 
a  chill  in  it  and  an  exhilaration  also.  The  forenoon 
is  all  morning  and  the  afternoon  all  evening.  The 
shadows  seem  to  come  forth  and  to  revenge  them- 
selves upon  the  day.  The  sunlight  is  diluted  with 
darkness.  The  colors  fade  from  the  landscape  and 
only  the  sheen  of  the  river  lights  up  the  gray  and 
brown  distance. 


THE  APPLE. 


THE  APPLE. 

Lo  !  sweetened  with  the  summer  light, 
The  full-juiced  apple,  waxing  over-mellow, 
Drops  in  a  silent  autumn  night.  —  TENNYSON. 

NOT  a  little  of  the  sunshine  of  our  northern  win- 
ters is  surely  wrapped  up  in  the  apple.  How  could 
we  winter  over  without  it !  How  is  life  sweetened 
by  its  mild  acids  !  A  cellar  well  filled  with  apples  is 
more  valuable  than  a  -chamber  filled  with  flax  and 
wool.  So  much  sound  ruddy  life  to  draw  upon,  to 
strike  one's  roots  down  into,  as  it  were. 

Especially  to  those  whose  soil  of  life  is  inclined  to 
be  a  little  clayey  and  heavy,  is  the  apple  a  winter 
necessity.  It  is  the  natural  antidote  of  most  of  the 
ills  the  flesh  is  heir  to.  Full  of  vegetable  acids  and 
arornatics,  qualities  which  act  as  refrigerants  and  an- 
tiseptics, what  an  enemy  it  is  to  jaundice,  indigestion, 
torpidity  of  liver,  etc.  It  is  a  gentle  spur  and  tonic 
to  the  whole  biliary  system.  Then  I  have  read  that 
it  has  been  found  by  analysis  to  contain  more  phos- 
phorus than  any  other  vegetable.  This  makes  it  the 
proper  food  of  the  scholar  and  the  sedentary  man  ;  it 
feeds  his  brain  and  it  stimulates  his  liver.  Neither  is 


132  THE  APPLE. 

this  all.  .  Beside  its  hygienic  properties,  the  apple  is 
full  of  sugar  and  mucilage,  which  make  it  highly 
nutritious.  It  is  said  "The  operators  of  Cornwall, 
England,  consider  ripe  apples  nearly  as  nourishing  as 
bread,  and  far  more  so  than  potatoes.  In  the  year 
1801  — which  was  a  year  of  much  scarcity — apples, 
instead  of  being  converted  into  cider,  were  sold  to  the 
poor,  and  the  laborers  asserted  that  they  could  '  stand 
their  work  '  on  baked  apples  without  meat ;  whereas 
a  potato  diet  required  either  meat  or  some  other  sub- 
stantial nutriment.  The  French  and  Germans  use 
apples  extensively,  so  do  the  inhabitants  of  all  Euro- 
pean nations.  The  laborers  depend  upon  them  as 
an  article  of  food,  and  frequently  make  a  dinner  of 
sliced  apples  and  bread." 

Yet  the  English  apple  is  a  tame  and  insipid  affair, 
compared  with  the  intense,  sun-colored  and  sun- 
steeped  fruit  our  orchards  yield.  The  English  have 
no  sweet  apple  I  am  told,  the  saccharine  element  ap- 
parently being  less  abundant  in  vegetable  nature  in 
that  sour  and  chilly  climate  than  in  our  own.  It  is 
well  known  that  the  European  maple  yields  no  sugar, 
while  both  our  birch  and  hickory  have  sweet  in  their 
veins.  Perhaps  this  fact  accounts  for  our  excessive 
love  of  sweets  which  may  be  said  to  be  a  national 
trait. 

The  Russian  apple  has  a  lovely  complexion,  smooth 
and  transparent,  but  the  Cossack  is  not  yet  all  elimi- 
nated from  it.  The  only  one  I  have  seen  —  the 
Duchess  of  Oldenburg  —  is  as  beautiful  as  a  Tartar 


THE    APPLE.  133 

princess,  with  a  distracting  odor,  but  it  is  the  least  bit 
puckery  to  the  taste. 

The  best  thing  I  know  about  Chili  is  not  its  guano 
beds,  but  this  fact  which  I  learn  from  Darwin's  "  Voy- 
age," namely,  that  the  apple  thrives  well  there.  Dar- 
win saw  a  town  there  so  completely  buried  in  a  wood 
of  apple-trees,  that  its  streets  were  merely  paths  in 
an  orchard.  The  tree  indeed  thrives  so  well,  that 
large  branches  cut  off  in  the  spring  and  planted  two 
or  three  feet  deep  in  the  ground  send  out  roots  and 
develop  into  fine  full-bearing  trees  by  the  third  year. 
The  people  know  the  value  of  the  apple  too.  They 
make  cider  and  wine  of  it  and  then  from  the  refuse  a 
white  arid  finely  flavored  spirit;  then  by  another 
process  a  sweet  treacle  is  obtained  called  honey.  The 
children  and  pigs  ate  little  or  no  other  food.  He 
does  not  add  that  the  people  are  healthy  and  temper- 
ate, but  I  have  no  doubt  they  are.  We  knew  the 
apple  had  many  virtues,  but  these  Chilians  have  really 
opened  a  deep  beneath  a  deep.  We  had  found  out 
the  cider  and  the  spirits,  but  who  guessed  the  wine 
and  the  honey,  except  it  were  the  bees  ?  There  is 
a  variety  in  our  orchards  called  the  winesap,  a  doubly 
liquid  name  that  suggests  what  might  be  done  with 
this  fruit. 

The  apple  is  the  commonest  and  yet  the  most 
varied  and  beautiful  of  fruits.  A  dish  of  them  is  as 
becoming  to  the  centre-table  in  winter  as  was  the  vase 
of  flowers  in  the  summer,  - — a  bouquet  of  spitzen- 
bergs  and  greenings  and  northern  spies.  A  rose  when 


134  THE   APPLE. 

it  blooms,  the  apple  is  a  rose  when  its  ripens.  It 
pleases  every  sense  to  which  it  can  be  addressed,  the 
touch,  the  smell,  the  sight,  the  taste ;  and  when  it  falls 
in  the  still  October  days  it  pleases  the  ear.  It  is  a 
call  to  a  banquet,  it  is  a  signal  that  the  feast  is  ready. 
The  bough  would  fain  hold  it,  but  it  can  now  assert 
its  independence ;  it  can  now  live  a  life  of  its  own. 

Daily  the  stem  relaxes  its  hold,  till  finally  it  lets 
go  completely  and  down  comes  the  painted  sphere 
with  a  mellow  thump  to  the  earth,  toward  which  it 
has  been  nodding  so  long.  It  bounds  away  to  seek 
its  bed,  to  hide  under  a  leaf,  or  in  a  tuft  of  grass.  It 
will  now  take  time  to  meditate  and  ripen !  What 
delicious  thoughts  it  has  there  nestled  with  its  fellows 
under  the  fence,  turning  acid  into  sugar,  and  sugar 
into  wine ! 

How  pleasing  to  the  touch.  I  love  to  stroke  its 
polished  rondure  with  my  hand,  to  carry  it  in  my 
pocket  on  my  tramp  over  the  winter  hills,  or  through 
the  Dearly  spring  woods.  You  are  company,  you  red- 
cheeked  spitz,  or  you  salmon-fleshed  greening  !  I  toy 
with  you ;  press  your  face  to  mine,  toss  you  in  the  air, 
roll  you  on  the  ground,  see  you  shine  out  where  you 
.  lie  amid  the  moss  and  dry  leaves  and  sticks.  You 
are  so  alive !  You  glow  like  a  ruddy  flower.  You 
look  so  animated  I  almost  expect  to  see  you  move  ! 
I  postpone  the  eating  of  you,  you  are  so  beautiful ! 
How  compact ;  how  exquisitely  tinted  !  Stained  by 
the  sun  and  varnished  against  the  rains.  An  inde- 
pendent vegetable  existence,  alive  and  vascular  as 


THE   APPLE.  135 

my  own  flesh ;  capable  of  being  wounded,  bleeding, 
wasting  away,  or  almost  repairing  damages  ! 

How  they  resist  the  cold !  holding  out  almost  as 
long  as  the  red  cheeks  of  the  boys  do.  A  frost  that 
destroys  the  potatoes  and  other  roots  only  makes  the 
apple  more  crisp  and  vigorous  ;  they  peep  out  from 
the  chance  November  snows  unscathed.  When  I  see 
the  fruit  vender  on  the  street  corner  stamping  his  feet 
and  beating  his  hands  to  keep  them  warm  and  his 
naked  apples  lying  exposed  to  the  blasts,  I  wonder 
if  they  do  not  ache  too  to  clap  their  hands  and  en- 
liven their  circulation.  But  they  can  stand  it  nearly 
as  long  as  the  vender  can. 

Noble  common  fruit,  best  friend  of  man  and  most 
loved  by  him,  following  him  like  his  dog  or  his  cow, 
wherever  he  goes.  His  homestead  is  not  planted  till 
you  are  planted,  your  roots  intertwine  with  his  ;  thriv- 
ing best  where  he  thrives  best,  loving  the  limestone 
and  the  frost,  the  plow  and  the  pruning-knife,  you 
are  indeed  suggestive  of  hardy,  cheerful  industry,  and 
a  healthy  life  in  the  open  air.  Temperate,  chaste 
fruit !  you  mean  neither  luxury  nor  sloth,  neither 
satiety  nor  indolence,  neither  enervating  heats  nor 
the  Frigid  Zones.  Uncloying  fruit,  fruit  whose  best 
sauce  is  the  open  air,  whose  finest  flavors  only  he 
whose  taste  is  sharpened  by  brisk  work  or  walking 
knows ;  winter  fruit,  when  the  fire  of  life  burns 
brightest ;  fruit  always  a'  little  hyperborean,  leaning 
toward  the  cold;  bracing,  sub-acid,  active  fruit.  I 
think  you  must  come  from  the  north,  you  are  so  frank 


136  THE  APPLE. 

and  honest,  so  sturdy  and  appetizing.  You  are  stocky 
and  homely  like  the  northern  races.  Your  quality  is 
Saxon.  Surely  the  fiery  and  impetuous  south  is  not 
akin  to  thee.  Not  spices  or  olives  or  the  sumptuous 
liquid  fruits,  but  the  grass,  the  snow,  the  grams,  the 
coolness  is  akin  to  thee.  I  think  if  I  could  subsist  on 
you  or  the  like  of  you,  I  should  never  have  an  intem- 
perate or  ignoble  thought,  never  be  feverish  or  de- 
spondent. So  far  as  I  could  absorb  or  transmute 
your  quality  I  should  be  cheerful,  continent,  equitable, 
sweet-blooded,  long-lived,  and  should  shed  warmth 
and  contentment  around. 

Is  there  any  other  fruit  that  has  so  much  facial  ex- 
pression as  the  apple  ?  What  boy  does  not  more  than 
half  believe  they  can  see  with  that  single  eye  of  theirs  ? 
Do  they  not  look  and  nod  to  him  from  the  bough  ? 
The  swaar  has  one  look,  the  rambo  another,  the  spy 
another.  The  youth  recognizes  the  seek-no-further 
buried  beneath  a  dozen  other  varieties,  the  moment 
he  catches  a  glance  of  its  eye,  or  the  bonny-cheeked 
Newtown  pipin,  or  the  gentle  but  sharp-nosed  gilli- 
flower.  He  goes  to  the  great  bin  in  the  cellar  and 
sinks  his  shafts  here  and  there  in  the  garnered  wealth 
of  the  orchards,  mining  for  his  favorites,  sometimes 
coining  plump  upon  them,  sometimes  catching  a 
glimpse  of  them  to  the  right  or  left,  or  uncovering 
them  as  keystones  in  an  arch  made  up  of  many  varie- 
ties. 

In  the  dark  he  can  usually  tell  them  by  the  sense 
of  touch.  There  is  not  only  the  size  and  shape,  but 


THE   APPLE.  137 

there  is  the  texture  and  polish.  Some  apples  are 
coarse-grained  and  some  are  fine ;  some  are  thin, 
skinned  and  some  are  thick.  One  variety  is  quick 
and  vigorous  beneath  the  touch ;  another  gentle  and 
yielding.  The  pinnock  has  a  thick  skin  with  a 
spongy  lining,  a  bruise  in  it  becomes  like  a  piece  of 
cork.  The  tallow  apple  has  an  unctuous  feel  as  its 
name  suggests.  It  sheds  water  like  a  duck.  What 
apple  is  that  with  a  fat  curved  stem  that  blends  so 
prettily  with  its  own  flesh, —  the  wine-apple  ?  Some 
varieties  impress  me  as  masculine,  —  weather-stained, 
freckled,  lasting  and  rugged  ;  others  are  indeed  lady 
apples,  fair,  delicate,  shining,  mild-flavored,  white- 
meated,  like  the  egg-drop  and  lady-finger.  The  prac- 
ticed hand  knows  each  kind  by  the  touch. 

Do  you  remember  the  apple  hole  in  the  garden  or 
back  of  the  house,  Ben  Bolt  ?  In  the  fall  after  the 
bins  in  the  cellar  had  been  well  stocked,  we  excavated 
a  circular  pit  in  the  warm  mellow  earth  and  covering 
the  bottom  with  clean  rye  straw,  emptied  in  basketful 
after  basketful  of  hardy  choice  varieties,  till  there  was 
a  tent-shaped  mound  several  feet  high  of  shining 
variegated  fruit.  Then  wrapping  it  about  with  a  thick 
layer  of  long  rye  straw,  and  tucking  it  up  snug  and 
warm,  the  mound  was  covered  with  a  thin  coating  of 
earth,  a  flat  stone  on  the  top  holding  down  the  straw. 
A.s  winter  set  in  another  coating  of  earth  was  put  upon 
it,  with  perhaps  an  overcoat  of  coarse  dry  stable  ma- 
nure, and  the  precious  pile  was  left  in  silence  and 
darkness  till  spring.  No  marmot  hibernating  under 


138  THE  APPLE. 

ground  in  his  nest  of  leaves  and  dry  grass,  more  cosy 
and  warm.  No  frost,  no  wet,  but  fragrant  privacy 
and  quiet  Then  how  the  earth  tempers  and  flavors 
the  apples  !  It  draws  out  all  the  acrid  unripe  quali- 
ties, and  infuses  into  them  a  subtle  refreshing  taste 
of  the  soil.  Some  varieties  perish,  but  the  ranker, 
hardier  kinds,  like  the  northern  spy,  the  greening,  or 
the  black  apple,  or  the  russet,  or  the  pinnock,  how 
they  ripen  and  grow  in  grace,  how  the  green  becomes 
gold,  and  the  bitter  becomes  sweet ! 

As  the  supply  in  the  bins  and  barrels  gets  low  and 
spring  approaches,  the  buried  treasures  in  the  garden 
are  remembered.  With  spade  and  axe  we  go  out  and 
penetrate  through  the  snow  and  frozen  earth  till  the 
inner  dressing  of  straw  is  laid  bare.  It  is  not  quite 
as  clear  and  bright  as  when  we  placed  it  there  last 
fall,  but  the  fruit  beneath,  which  the  hand  soon  ex- 
poses, is  just  as  bright  and  far  more  luscious.  Then, 
as  day  after  day  you  resort  to  the  hole,  and  removing 
the  straw  and  earth  from  the  opening,  thrust  your 
arm  into  the  fragrant  pit,  you  have  a  better  chance 
than  ever  before  to  become  acquainted  with  your 
favorites  by  the  sense  of  touch.  How  you  feel  for 
them,  reaching  to  the  right  and  left  ?  Now  you  have 
got  a  Tolman  sweet ;  you  imagine  you  can  feel  that 
single  meridian  line  that  divides  it  into  two  hemis- 
pheres. Now  a  greening  fills  your  hand,  you  feel  its 
fine  quality  beneath  its  rough  coat.  Now  you  have 
hooked  a  swaar,  you  recognize  its  full  face ;  now  a 
Vandevere  or  a  King  rolls  down  from  the  apex  above 


THE    APPLE.  139 

and  you  bag  it  at  once.  When  you  were  a  school- 
boy you  stowed  these  away  in  your  pockets  and  ate 
them  along  the  road  and  at  recess,  and  again  at  noon- 
time ;  and  they,  in  a  measure,  corrected  the  effects 
of  the  cake  and  pie  with  which  your  indulgent  mother 
filled  your  lunch-basket. 

The  boy  is  indeed  the  true  apple-eater,  and  is  not 
to  be  questioned  how  he  came  by  the  fruit  with  which 
his  pockets  are  filled.  It  belongs  to  him  and  he  may 
steal  it  if  it  cannot  be  had  in  any  other  way.  His 
own  juicy  flesh  craves  the  juicy  flesh  of  the  apple. 
Sap  draws  sap.  His  fruit  eating  has  little  reference 
to  the  state  of  his  appetite.  Whether  he  be  full  of 
meat  or  empty  of  meat  he  wants  the  apple  just  the 
same.  Before  meal  or  after  meal  it  never  comes 
amiss.  The  farm-boy  munches  apples  all  day  long. 
He  has  nests  of  them  in  the  hay-mow,  mellowing,  to 
which  he  makes  frequent  visits.  Sometimes  old 
Brindle,  having  access  through  the  open  door,  smells 
them  out  and  makes  short  work  of  them. 

In  some  countries  the  custom  remains  of  placing  a 
rosy  apple  in  the  hand  of  the  dead  that  they  may 
find  it  when  they  enter  paradise.  In  northern  my- 
thology the  giants  eat  apples  to  keep  off  old  age. 

The  apple  is  indeed  the  fruit  of  youth.  As  we 
grow  old  we  crave  apples  less.  It  is  an  ominous 
sign.  When  you  are  ashamed  to  be  seen  eating  them 
on  the  street ;  when  you  can  carry  them  in  your 
pocket  and  your  hand  not  constantly  find  its  way  to 
them ;  when  your  neighbor  has  apples  and  you  have 


140  THE   APPLE. 

none,  and  you  make  no  nocturnal  visits  to  his  or- 
chard ;  when  your  lunch-basket  is  without  them  and 
you  can  pass  a  winter's  night  by  the  fireside  with  no 
thought  of  the  fruit  at  your  elbow,  then  be  assured 
you  are  no  longer  a  boy,  either  in  heart  or  years. 

The  genuine  apple-eater  comforts  himself  with  an 
apple  in  their  season  as  others  with  a  pipe  or  cigar. 
When  he  has  nothing  else  to  do,  or  is  bored,  he  eats 
an  apple.  While  he  is  waiting  for  the  train  he  eats 
an  apple,  sometimes  several  of  them.  When  he 
takes  a  walk  he  arms  himself  with  apples.  His  trav- 
eling bag  is  full  of  apples.  He  offers  an  apple  to 
his  companion,  and  takes  one  himself.  They  are  his 
chief  solace  when  on  the  road.  He  sows  their  seed 
all  along  the  route.  He  tosses  the  core  from  the  car 
window  and  from  the  top  of  the  stage-coach.  He 
would,  in  time,  make  the  land  one  vast  orchard.  He 
dispenses  with  a  knife.  He  prefers  that  his  teeth 
shall  have  the  first  taste.  Then  he  knows  the  best 
flavor  is  immediately  beneath  the  skin,  and  that  in  a 
pared  apple  this  is  lost.  If  you  will  stew  the  apple, 
he  says,  instead  of  baking  it,  by  all  means  leave 
the  skin  on.  It  improves  the  color  and  vastly  height- 
ens the  flavor  of  the  dish. 

The  apple  is  a  masculine  fruit ;  hence  women  are 
poor  apple-eaters.  It  belongs  to  the  open  air,  and 
requires  an  open  air  taste  and  relish. 

I  instantly  sympathized  with  that  clergyman  I 
read  of,  who  on  pulling  out  his  pocket-handkerchief 
in  the  midst  of  his  discourse,  pulled  out  two  bounc- 


THE  APPLE.  141 

ing  apples  with  it  that  went  rolling  across  the  pulpit 
floor  and  down  the  pulpit  stairs.  These  apples  were, 
no  doubt,  to  be  eaten  after  the  sermon  on  his  way 
home,  or  to  his  next  appointment.  They  would  take 
the  taste  of  it  out  of  his  mouth.  Then,  would  a 
minister  be  apt  to  grow  tiresome  with  two  big  apples 
in  his  coat-tail  pockets  ?  Would  he  not  naturally 
hasten  along  to  "lastly,"  and  the  big  apples?  If  they 
were  the  dominie  apples,  and  it  was  April  or  May, 
he  certainly  would. 

How  the  early  settlers  prized  the  apple  !  When 
their  trees  broke  down  or  were  split  asunder  by  the 
storms,  the  neighbors  turned  out,  the  divided  tree  was 
put  together  again  and  fastened  with  iron  bolts.  In 
some  of  the  oldest  orchards  one  may  still  occasionally 
see  a  large  dilapidated  tree  with  the  rusty  iron  bolt 
yet  visible.  Poor,  sour  fruit,  too,  but  sweet  in  those 
early  pioneer  days.  My  grandfather,  who  was  one 
of  these  heroes  of  the  stump,  used  every  fall  to  make 
a  journey  of  forty  miles  for  a  few  apples,  which  he 
brought  home  in  a  bag  on  horseback.  He  frequently 
started  from  home  by  two  or  three  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  and  at  one  time  both  himself  and  horse 
were  much  frightened  by  the  screaming  of  panthers 
in  a  narrow  pass  in  the  mountains  through  which  the 
road  led. 

Emerson,  I  believe,  has  spoken  of  the  apple  as  the 
social  fruit  of  New  England.  Indeed,  what  a  pro- 
moter or  abettor  of  social  intercourse  among  our  rural 
population  the  apple  has  been,  the  company  grow- 


142  THE  APPLE. 

iug  more  merry  and  unrestrained  as  soon  as  the  bas- 
ket of  apples  was  passed  round.  When  the  cider 
followed,  the  introduction  and  good  understanding 
were  complete.  Then  those  rural  gatherings  that  en- 
livened the  autumn  in  the  country,  known  as  "  apple 
cuts,"  now,  alas !  nearly  obsolete,  where  so  many 
things  were  cut  and  dried  besides  apples !  The 
larger  and  more  loaded  the  orchard,  the  more  fre- 
quently the  invitations  went  round  and  the  higher 
the  social  and  convivial  spirit  ran.  Ours  is  eminently 
a  country  of  the  orchard.  Horace  Greeley  said  he 
had  seen  no  land  in  which  the  orchard  formed  such 
a  prominent  feature  in  the  rural  and  agricultural  dis- 
tricts. Nearly  every  farmhouse  in  the  Eastern  and 
Northern  States  has  its  setting  or  its  background  of 
apple-trees,  which  generally  date  back  to  the  first 
settlement  of  the  farm.  Indeed,  the  orchard,  more 
than  almost  any  other  thing,  tends  to  soften  and  hu- 
manize the  country,  and  give  the  place  of  which  it  is 
an  adjunct,  a  settled,  domestic  look.  The  apple-tree 
takes  the  rawness  and  wildness  off  any  scene.  On 
the  top  of  a  mountain,  or  in  remote  pastures,  it  sheds 
the  sentiment  of  home.  It  never  loses  its  domestic 
air,  or  lapses  into  a  wild  state.  And  in  planting  a 
homestead,  or  in  choosing  a  building  site  for  the  new 
house,  what  a  help  it  is  to  have  a  few  old,  maternal 
apple-trees  near  by  ;  regular  old  grandmothers,  who 
have  seen  trouble,  who  have  been  sad  and  glad 
through  so  many  winters  and  summers,  who  have 
blossomed  till  the  air  about  them  is  sweeter  than  else- 


THE   APPLE.  143 

where,  and  borne  fruit  till  the  grass  beneath  them  has 
become  thick  and  soft  from  human  contact,  and  who 
have  nourished  robins  and  finches  in  their  branches 
till  they  have  a  tender,  brooding  look.  The  ground, 
the  turf,  the  atmosphere  of  an  old  orchard,  seem 
several  stages  nearer  to  man  than  that  of  the  adjoin- 
ing field,  as  if  the  trees  had  given  back  to  the  soil 
more  than  they  had  taken  from  it;  as  if  they  had 
tempered  the  elements  and  attracted  all  the  genial 
and  beneficent  influences  in  the  landscape  around. 

An  apple  orchard  is  sure  to  bear  you  several  crops 
beside  the  apple.  There  is  the  crop  of  sweet  and  ten- 
der reminiscences  dating  from  childhood  and  span- 
ning the  seasons  from  May  to  October,  and  making 
the  orchard  a  sort  of  outlying  part  of  the  household. 
You  have  played  there  as  a  child,  mused  there  as  a 
youth  or  lover,  strolled  there  as  a  thoughtful,  sad- 
eyed  man.  Your  father,  perhaps,  planted  the  trees, 
or  reared  them  from  the  seed,  and  you  yourself  have 
pruned  and  grafted  them,  and  worked  among  them, 
till  every  separate  tree  has  a  peculiar  history  and 
meaning  in  your  mind.  Then  there  is  the  never- 
failing  crop  of  birds  —  robins,  goldfinches,  king-birds, 
cedar-birds,  hair-birds,  orioles,  starlings  —  all  nest- 
ing and  breeding  in  its  branches,  and  fitly  described 
by  Wilson  Flagg,  as  "  Birds  of  the  Garden  and  Or- 
chard." Whether  the  pippin  and  sweetbough  bear 
or  not,  the  "  punctual  birds  "  can  always  be  depended 
on.  Indeed,  there  are  few  better  places  to  study  orni- 
thology than  in  the  orchard.  Besides  its  regular  oc- 


144  THE  APPLE. 

cupants,  many  of  the  birds  of  the  deeper  forest  find 
occasion  to  visit  it  during  the  season.  The  cuckoo 
comes  for  the  tent-caterpillar,  the  jay  for  frozen  ap- 
ples, the  ruffed  grouse  for  buds,  the  crow  foraging  for 
birds'  eggs,  the  woodpecker  and  chickadees  for  their 
food,  and  the  high-hole  for  ants.  The  red-bird  comes 
too,  if  only  to  see  what  a  friendly  covert  its  branches 
form,  and  the  wood-thrush  now  and  then  comes  out 
of  the  grove  near  by,  and  nests  alongside  of  its  cousin, 
the  robin.  The  smaller  hawks  know  that  this  is  a 
most  likely  spot  for  their  prey,  and  in  spring  the  shy 
northern  warblers  may  be  studied  as  they  pause  to 
feed  on  the  fine  insects  amid  its  branches.  The  mice 
love  to  dwell  here  also,  and  hither  comes  from  the 
near  woods  the  squirrel  and  the  rabbit.  The  latter 
will  put  his  head  through  the  boy's  slipper-noose  any 
time  for  a  taste  of  the  sweet  apple,  and  the  red  squir- 
rel and  chipmunk  esteem  its  seeds  a  great  rarity. 

All  the  domestic  animals  love  the  apple,  but  none 
so  much  so  as  the  cow.  The  taste  of  it  wakes  her 
up  as  few  other  things  do,  and  bars  and  fences  must 
be  well  looked  after.  No  need  to  assort  them  or 
pick  out  the  ripe  ones  for  her.  An  apple  is  an  ap- 
ple, and  there  is  no  best  about  it.  I  heard  of  a  quick- 
witted old  cow  that  learned  to  shake  them  down  from 
the  tree.  "While  rubbing  herself  she  had  observed 
that  an  apple  sometimes  fell.  This  stimulated  her  to 
rub  a  little  harder,  when  more  apples  fell.  She  then 
took  the  hint  and  rubbed  her  shoulder  with  such 
vigor  that  the  farmer  had  to  check  her  and  keep  an 
eye  on  her  to  save  his  fruit. 


THE  APPLE.  145 

But  the  cow  is  the  friend  of  the  apple.  How  many 
trees  she  has  planted  about  the  farm,  in  the  edge  of 
the  woods,  and  in  remote  fields  and  pastures.  The 
wild  apples,  celebrated  by  Thoreau,  are  mostly  of  her 
planting.  She  browses  them  down  to  be  sure,  but 
they  are  hers,  and  why  should  she  not  ? 

What  an  individuality  the  apple-tree  has,  each  va- 
riety being  nearly  as  marked  by  its  form  as  by  its 
fruit.  What  a  vigorous  grower,  for  instance,  is  the 
Ribston  pippin,  an  English  apple.  Wide  branching 
like  the  oak,  and  its  large  ridgy  fruit,  in  late  fall  or 
early  winter,  is  one  of  my  favorites.  Or  the  thick 
and  more  pendent  top  of  the  belleflower,  with  its 
equally  rich,  sprightly,  uncloying  fruit. 

Sweet  apples  are  perhaps  the  most  nutritious,  and 
when  baked  are  a  feast  of  themselves.  With  a  tree 
of  the  Jersey  sweet  or  of  Tolman's  sweeting  in  bear- 
ing, no  man's  table  need  be  devoid  of  luxuries  and 
one  of  the  most  wholesome  of  all  deserts.  Or  the 
red  astrachan,  an  August  apple,  what  a  gap  may  be 
filled  in  the  culinary  department  of  a  household  at  this 
season,  by  a  single  tree  of  this  fruit !  And  what  a 
feast  is  its  shining  crimson  coat  to  the  eye  before  its 
snow-white  flesh  has  reached  the  tongue.  But  the 
apple  of  apples  for  the  household  is  the  spitzenberg. 
In  this  casket  Pomona  has  piit  her  highest  flavors. 
It  can  stand  the  ordeal  of  cooking,  and  still  remain 
a  spitz.  I  recently  saw  a  barrel  of  these  apples  from 
the  orchard  of  a  fruit  grower  in  the  northern  part  of 
New  York,  who  has  devoted  especial  attention  to 
10 


146  THE   APPLE. 

this  variety.  They  were  perfect  gems.  Not  large, 
that  had  not  been  the  aim,  but  small,  fair,  uniform, 
and  red  to  the  core.  How  intense,  how  spicy  and 
aromatic. 

But  all  the  excellences  of  the  apple  are  not  con- 
fined to  the  cultivated  fruit.  Occasionally  a  seedling 
springs  up  about  the  farm  that  produces  fruit  of  rare 
beauty  and  worth.  In  sections  peculiarly  adapted  to 
the  apple,  like  a  certain  belt  along  the  Hudson  River, 
I  have  noticed  that  most  of  the  wild  unbidden  trees 
bear  good,  edible  fruit.  In  cold  and  ungenial  districts, 
the  seedlings  are  mostly  sour  and  crabbed,  but  in 
more  favorable  soils  they  are  oftener  mild  and  sweet. 
I  know  wild  apples  that  ripen  in  August,  and  that  do 
not  need,  if  it  could  be  had,  Thoreau's  sauce  of  sharp, 
November  air  to  be  eaten  with.  At  the  foot  of  a 
hill  near  me  and  striking  its  roots  deep  in  the  shale, 
is  a  giant  specimen  of  native  tree  that  bears  an  apple 
that  has  about  the  clearest,  waxiest,  most  transparent 
complexion  I  ever  saw.  It  is  good  size,  and  the 
color  of  a  tea  rose.  Its  quality  is  best  appreciated  in 
the  kitchen.  I  know  another  seedling  of  excellent 
quality  and  so  remarkable  for  its  firmness  and  den- 
sity, that  it  is  known  on  the  farm  where  it  grows  as 
the  "  heavy  apple." 

I  have  alluded  to  Thoreau,  to  whom  all  lovers  of 
the  apple  and  its  tree  are  under  obligation.  His 
chapter  on  Wild  Apples  is  a  most  delicious  piece  of 
writing.  It  has  a  "  tang  and  smack  "  like  the  fruit 
it  celebrates,  and  is  dashed  and  streaked  with  color 


THE  APPLE.  147 

in  the  same  manner.  It  has  the  hue  and  perfume  of 
the  crab,  and  the  richness  and  raciness  of  the  pippin. 
But  Thoreau  loved  other  apples  than  the  wild  sorts 
and  was  obliged  to  confess  that  his  favorites  could 
not  be  eaten  in  doors.  Late  in  November  he  found 
a  blue-pearmain  tree  growing  within  the  edge  of  a 
swamp,  almost  as  good  as  wild.  "You  would  not 
suppose,"  he  says,  "  that  there  was  any  fruit  left  there 
on  the  first  survey,  but  you  must  look  according  to 
system.  Those  which  lie  exposed  are  quite  brown 
and  rotten  now,  or  perchance  a  few  still  show  one 
blooming  cheek  here  and  there  amid  the  wet  leaves. 
Nevertheless,  with  experienced  eyes  I  explore  amid 
the  bare  alders,  and  the  huckleberry  bushes,  and  the 
withered  sedge,  and  in  the  crevices  of  the  rocks,  which 
are  full  of  leaves,  and  pry  under  the.  fallen  and  decayed 
ferns  which,  with  apple  and  alder  leaves,  thickly 
strew  the  ground.  For  I  know  that  they  lie  con- 
cealed, fallen  into  hollows  long  since,  and  covered  up 
by  the  leaves  of  the  tree  itself — a  proper  kind  of 
packing.  From  these  lurking  places,  everywhere 
within  the  circumference  of  the  tree,  I  draw  forth  the 
fruit  all  wet  and  glossy,  may  be  nibbled  by  rabbits 
and  hollowed  out  by  crickets,  and  perhaps  a  leaf  or  two 
cemented  to  it  (as  Curzon  an  old  manuscript  from  a 
monastery's  mouldy  cellar),  but  still  with  a  rich  bloom 
on  it,  and  at  least  as  ripe  and  well  kept,  if  no  better 
than  those  in  barrels,  more  crisp  and  lively  than  they. 
If  these  resources  fail  to  yield  anything,  I  have 
learned  to  look  between  the  leaves  of  the  suckers 


148  THE  APPLE. 

which  spring  thickly  from  some  horizontal  limb,  for 
now  and  then  one  lodges  there,  or  in  the  very  midst 
of  an  alder-clump,  where  they  are  covered  by  leaves, 
safe  from  cows  which  may  have  smelled  them  out. 
If  I  am  sharp-set,  for  I  do  not  refuse  the  blue- 
pearmain,  I  fill  my  pockets  on  each  side ;  and  as  I 
retrace  my  steps,  in  the  frosty  eve,  being  perhaps  four 
or  five  miles  from  home,  I  eat  one  first  from  this  side, 
and  then  from  that,  to  keep  my  balance." 


AN  OCTOBER  ABROAD. 


MELLOW  ENGLAND. 

I  WILL  say  at  the  outset,  as  I  believe  some  one  else 
has  said  on  a  like  occasion,  that  in  this  narrative  I 
shall  probably  describe  myself  more  than  the  objects 
I  look  upon.  The  facts  and  particulars  of  the  case 
have  already  been  set  down  in  the  guide-books  and 
in  innumerable  books  of  travel.  I  shall  only  at- 
tempt to  give  an  account  of  the  pleasure  and  satisfac- 
tion I  had  in  coming  face  to  face  with  things  in  the 
mother  country,  seeing  them  as  I  did  with  kindred 
and  sympathizing  eyes. 

The  ocean  was  a  dread  fascination  to  me  —  a 
world  whose  dominion  I  had  never  entered ;  but  I 
proved  to  be  such  a  wretched  sailor  that  I  am  obliged 
to  confess,  Hibernian-fashion,  that  the  happiest  mo- 
ment I  spent  upon  the  sea  was  when  I  set  my  foot 
upon  the  land. 

It  is  a  wide  and  fearful  gulf  that  separates  the  two 
worlds.  The  landsman  can  know  little  of  the  wild- 
ness,  savageness,  and  mercilessness  of  nature  till  he 
has  been  upon  the  sea.  It  is  as  if  he  had  taken  a 
leap  off  into  the  interstellar  spaces.  In  voyaging  to 
Mars  or  Jupiter  he  might  cross  such  a  desert  — 


152  AN   OCTOBER   ABROAD. 

might  confront  such  awful  purity  and  coldness.  An 
astronomic  solitariness  and  remoteness  encompasses 
the  sea.  The  earth  and  all  remembrance  of  it  is 
blotted  out ;  there  is  no  hint  of  it  anywhere.  This 
is  not  water,  this  cold,  blue-black,  vitreous  liquid.  It 
suggests  not  life  but  death.  Indeed,  the  regions  of 
everlasting  ice  -and  snow  are  not  more  cold  and  in- 
human than  is  the  sea. 

Almost  the  only  thing  about  my  first  sea  voyage 
that  I  remember  with  pleasure  is  the  circumstance  of 
the  little  birds  that,  during  the  first  few  days  out, 
took  refuge  on  the  steamer.  The  first  afternoon, 
just  as  we  were  losing  sight  of  land,  a  delicate  little 
wood  bird,  —  the  black  and  white  creeping  warbler, 
—  having  lost  its  reckoning,  in  making  perhaps  its 
first  southern  voyage,  came  aboard.  It  was  much 
fatigued  and  had  a  disheartened,  demoralized  look. 
After  an  hour  or  two  it  disappeared,  having,  I  fear,  a 
hard  pull  to  reach  the  land  in  the  face  of  the  wind 
that  was  blowing,  if  indeed  it  reached  it  at  all. 

The  next  day,  just  at  night,  I  observed  a  small 
hawk  sailing  about  conveniently  near  the  vessel,  but 
with  a  very  lofty,  independent  mien,  as  if  he  had  just 
happened  that  way  on  his  travels,  and  was  only 
lingering  to  take  a  good  view  of  us.  It  was  amus- 
ing to  observe  his  coolness  and  haughty  unconcern 
in  that  sad  plight  he  was  in  ;  by  nothing  in  his  man- 
ner betraying  that  he  was  several  hundred  miles  at 
sea,  and  did  not  know  how  he  was  going  to  get  back 
to  land.  But  presently  I  noticed  he  found  it  not  in- 


MELLOW   ENGLAND.  153 

consistent  with  his  dignity  to  alight  on  the  rigging 
under  friendly  cover  of  the  tops'l,  where  I  saw  his 
feathers  rudely  ruffled  by  the  wind,  till  darkness  set 
in.  If  the  sailors  did  not  disturb  him  during  the 
night,  he  certainly  needed  all  his  fortitude  in  the 
morning  to  put  a  cheerful  face  on  his  situation. 

The  third  day,  when  we  were  perhaps  off  Nova 
Scotia  or  Newfoundland,  the  American  pipit  or  tit- 
lark, from  the  far  North,  a  brown  bird  about  the  size 
of  a  sparrow,  dropped  upon  the  deck  of  the  ship,  so 
nearly  exhausted  that  one  of  the  sailors  was  on  the 
point  of  covering  it  with  his  hat.  It  stayed  about 
the  vessel  nearly  all  day,  flitting  from  point  to  point, 
or  hopping  along  a  few  feet  in  front  of  the  prom- 
enaders,  and  prying  into  every  crack  and  crevice 
for  food.  Time  after  time  I  saw  it  start  off  with  a 
reassuring  chirp,  as  if  determined  to  seek  the  land, 
but  before  it  had  got  many  rods  from  the  ship  its 
heart  would  seem  to  fail  it,  and  after  circling  about 
for  a  few  moments,  back  it  would  come,  more  dis- 
couraged than  ever. 

These  little  waifs  from  the  shore  !  I  gazed  upon 
them  with  a  strange,  sad  interest.  They  were  friends 
in  distress,  but  the  sea-birds,  skimming  along  indiffer- 
ent to  us,  or  darting  in  and  out  among  those  watery 
hills,  I  seemed  to  look  upon  as  my  natural  enemies. 
They  were  the  nurslings  and  favorites  of  the  sea,  and 
I  had  no  sympathy  with  them. 

No  doubt  the  number  of  our  land  birds  that  act- 
ually perish  in  the  sea  during  their  autumn  migra- 


154  AN   OCTOBER   ABROAD. 

tion,  being  carried  far  out  of  their  course  by  the 
prevailing  westerly  winds  of  this  season,  is  very 
great.  Occasionally  one  makes  the  passage  to  Great 
Britain,  by  following  the  ships  and  finding  them  at 
convenient  distances  along  the  route,  and  I  have  been 
told  that  over  .fifty  different  species  of  our  more  com- 
mon birds,  such  as  robins,  starlings,  grossbeaks, 
thrushes,  etc.,  have  been  found  in  Ireland,  having,  of 
course,  crossed  in  this  way.  What  numbers  of  these 
little  navigators  of  the  air  are  misled  and  wrecked 
during  those  dark  and  stormy  nights,  on  the  light- 
houses alone  that  line  the  Atlantic  Coast?  Is  it 
Celia  Thaxter  who  tells  of  having  picked  up  her 
apron  full  of  sparrows,  wTarblers,  flycatchers,  etc.,  at 
the  foot  of  the  light-house,  on  the  Isles  of  Shoals, 
one  morning  after  a  storm,  the  ground  being  still 
strewn  with  birds  of  all  kinds  that  had  dashed  them- 
selves against  the  beacon,  bewildered  and  fascinated 
by  its  tremendous  light? 

If  a  land  bird  perishes  at  sea,  a  sea  bird  is  equally 
cast  away  upon  the  land,  and  I  have  known  the  sooty 
tern,  with  its  almost  omnipotent  wing,  to  fall  down 
utterly  famished  and  exhausted,  two  hundred  miles 
from  salt  water. 

But  my  interest  in  these  things  did  not  last  beyond 
the  third  day.  About  this  time  we  entered  what  the 
sailors  call  the  "  devil's  hole,"  and  a  very  respectably 
sized  hole  it  is,  extending  from  the  Banks  of  New- 
foundland to  Ireland,  and  in  all  seasons  and  weathers 
it  seems  to  be  well  stirred  up. 


MELLOW   ENGLAND.  155 

Amidst  the  tossing  and  rolling,  the  groaning  of 
penitent  travelers,  and  the  laboring  of  the  vessel  as 
she  climbed  those  dark  unstable  mountains,  my  mind 
reverted  feebly  to  Huxley's  statement,  that  the  bot- 
tom of  this  sea,  for  over  a  thousand  miles,  presents 
to  the  eye  of  science  a  vast  chalk  plain,  over  which 
one  might  drive  as  over  a  floor,  and  I  tried  to  solace 
myself  by  dwelling  upon  the  spectacle  of  a  solitary 
traveler  whipping  up  his  steed  across  it.  The  imag- 
inary rattle  of  his  wagon  was  like  the  sound  of 
lutes  and  harps,  and  I  would  rather  have  clung  to  his 
axletree  than  been  rocked  in  the  best  berth  in  the 
ship. 

LAND. 

On  the  tenth  day,  about  four  o'clock  in  the  after- 
noon, we  sighted  Ireland.  The  ship  came  up  from 
behind  the  horizon  where  for  so  many  days  she  had 
been  buffeting  with  the  winds  and  the  waves,  but  had 
never  lost  the  clew,  bearing  straight  as  an  arrow  for 
the  mark.  I  think  if  she  had  been  aimed  at  a  fail- 
sized  artillery  target,  she  would  have  crossed  the 
ocean  and  struck  the  bull's  eye. 

In  Ireland,  instead  of  an  emerald  isle  rising  out  of 
the  sea,  I  beheld  a  succession  of  cold,  purplish  mount- 
ains, stretching  along  the  northeastern  horizon,  but  I 
am  bound  to  say  that  no  tints  of  bloom  or  verdure 
were  ever  half  so  welcome  to  me  as  were  those  dark, 
heather-clad  ranges.  It  is  a  feeling  which  a  man  can 
have  but  once  in  his  life,  when  he  first  sets  eyes  upon 
a  foreign  land,  and  in  my  case,  to  this  feeling  was 


156  AX    OCTOBER  ABROAD. 

added  the  delightful  thought  that  the  "  devil's  hole  " 
would  soon  be  cleared  and  my  long  fast  over. 

Presently,  after  the  darkness  had  set  in,  signal 
rockets  were  let  off  from  the  stern  of  the  vessel,  writ- 
ing their  burning  messages  upon. the  night,  and  when 
answering  rockets  rose  slowly  up  far  ahead,  I  suppose 
we  all  felt  that  the  voyage  was  essentially  done,  and 
no  doubt  a  message  flashed  back  under  the  ocean, 
that  the  Scotia  had  arrived. 

The  sight  of  the  land  had  been  such  medicine  to 
me  that  I  could  now  hold  up  my  head  and  walk 
about,  and  so  went  down  for  the  first  time  and  took 
a  look  at  the  engines  —  those  twin  monsters  that  had 
not  stopped  once,  or  apparently  varied  their  stroke  at 
all  since  leaving  Sandy  Hook  ;  I  felt  like  patting  their 
enormous  cranks  and  shafts  with  my  hand ;  then  at 
the  coal  bunks,  vast  cavernous  recesses  in  the  belly  of 
the  ship,  like  the  chambers  of  the  original  mine  in 
the  mountains,  and  saw  the  men  and  firemen  at  work 
in  a  sort  of  purgatory  of  heat  and  dust.  When  it  is 
remembered  that  one  of  these  ocean  steamers  con- 
sumes about  one  hundred  tons  of  coal  per  day,  it  is 
easy  to  imagine  what  a  burden  the  coal  for  a  voyage 
alone  must  be,  and  one  is  not  at  all  disposed  to  laugh 
at  Dr.  Lardner,  who  proved  so  convincingly  that  no 
steamship  could  ever  cross  the  ocean  because  it  could 
not  carry  coal  enough  to  enable  it  to  make  the  pas- 
sage. 

On  the  morrow,  a  calm  lustrous  day,  we  steamed  at 
our  leisure  up  the  Channel  and  across  the  Irish  Sea, 


MELLOW  ENGLAND.  157 

the  coast  of  Wales  and  her  groups  of  lofty  mount- 
ains in  full  view  nearly  all  day.  The  mountains 
were  in  profile  like  the  Catskills  viewed  from  the 
Hudson  below,  only  it  was  evident  there  were  no 
trees  or  shrubbery  upon  them,  and  their  summits,  on 
this  last  day  of  September,  were  white  with  the  snow. 


The  first  day  or  half  day  ashore  is,  of  course,  the 
most  novel  and  exciting  ;  but  who,  as  Mr.  Higginson 
says,  can  describe  his  sensations  and  emotions  this 
first  half  day.  It  is  a  page  of  travel  that  has  not  yet 
been  written.  Paradoxical  as  it  may  seem,  one  gen- 
erally comes  out  of  pickle  much  fresher  than  he  went 
in.  The  sea  has  given  him  an  enormous  appetite  for 
the  land.  Every  one  of  his  senses  is  like  a  hungry 
wolf  clamorous  to  be  fed.  For  my  part  I  had  sud- 
denly emerged  from  a  condition  bordering  on  that  of 
the  hibernating  animals  —  a  condition  in  which  I  had 
neither  ate,  nor  slept,  nor  thought,  nor  moved,  when 
I  could  help  it,  into  not  only  a  full,  but  a  keen  and 
joyous  possession  of  my  health  and  faculties.  It  was 
almost  a  metamorphosis.  I  was  no  longer  the  clod  I 
had  been,  but  a  bird  exulting  in  the  earth  and  air, 
and  in  the  liberty  of  motion.  Then  to  remember  it 
was  a  new  earth  and  a  new  sky  that  I  was  behold- 
ing, that  it  was  England,  the  old  mother  at  last,  no 
longer  a  faith  or  a  fable,  but  an  actual  fact  there  be- 
fore my  eyes  and  under  my  feet  —  why  should  I  not 
exult  ?  Go  to !  I  will  be  indulged.  These  trees, 


158  AN  OCTOBER  ABROAD. 

those  fields,  that  bird  darting  along  the  hedge-rows, 
those  men  and  boys  picking  blackberries  in  October, 
those  English  flowers  by  the  road-side  (stop  the  car- 
riage while  I  leap  out  and  pluck  them),  the  homely, 
domestic  looks  of  things,  those  houses,  those  queer 
vehicles,  those  thick-coated  horses,  those  big-footed, 
coarsely-clad,  clear-skinned  men  and  women,  this 
massive,  homely,  compact  architecture  —  let  me  have 
a  good  look,  for  this  is  my  first  hour  in  England,  and 
I  am  drunk  with  the  joy  of  seeing !  This  house-fly 
even,  let  me  inspect  it,1  and  that  swallow  skimming 
along  so  familiarly ;  is  he  the  same  I  saw  trying  to 
cling  to  the  sails  of  the  vessel  the  third  day  out  ?  or 
is  the  swallow  the  swallow  the  world  over?  This 
grass  I  certainly  have  seen  before,  and  this  red  and 
white  clover,  but  this  daisy  and  dandelion  are  not  the 
same,  and  I  have  come  three  thousand  miles  to  see 
the  mullein  cultivated  in  a  garden,  and  christened  the 
velvet  plant. 

As  we  sped  through  the  land,  the  heart  of  England, 
toward  London,  I  thought  my  eyes  would  never  get 
their  fill  of  the  landscape,  and  that  I  would  lose  them 
out  of  my  head  by  their  eagerness  to  catch  every  ob- 
ject as  we  rushed  along  !  How  they  reveled,  how 
they  followed  the  birds  and  the  game,  how  they 
glanced  ahead  on  the  track  —  that  marvelous  track  ! 
—  or  shot  off  over  the  fields  and  downs,  finding  their 
delight  in  the  streams,  the  roads,  the  bridges,  the 

1  The  English  house-fly  actually  seemed  coarser  and  more  hairy 
than  ours. 


MELLOW   ENGLAND.  159 

splendid  breeds  of  cattle  and  sheep  in  the  fields,  the 
superb  husbandry,  the  rich  mellow  soil,  the  drainage, 
the  hedges  —  in  the  iuconspicuousness  of  any  given 
feature  and  the  mellow  tone  and  homely  sincerity  of 
all  ;  now  dwelling  fondly  upon  the  groups  of  neatly 
modeled  stacks,  then  upon  the  field  occupations,  the 
gathering  of  turnips  and  cabbages,  or  the  digging  of 
potatoes,  —  how  I  longed  to  turn  up  the  historic  soil 
into  which  had  passed  the  sweat  and  virtue  of  so 
many  generations,  with  my  own  spade,  —  then  upon 
the  quaint,  old,  thatched  houses,  or  the  cluster  of 
tiled  roofs,  then  catching  at  a  church  spire  across  a 
meadow  (and  it  is  all  meadow)  or  at  the  remains  of 
tower  or  wall  overrun  with  ivy. 

Here,  something  almost  human  looks  out  at  you 
from  the  landscape  ;  nature  here  has  been  so  long 
under  the  dominion  of  man,  has  been  taken  up  and 
laid  down  by  him  so  many  times,  worked  over  and 
over  with  his  hands,  fed  and  fattened  by  his  toil  and 
industry,  and  on  the  whole,  has  proved  herself  so  will- 
ing and  tractable,  that  she  has  taken  on  something  of 
his  image,  and  seems  to  radiate  his  presence.  She  is 
completely  domesticated,  and  no  doubt  loves  the  tit- 
ivation  of  the  harrow  and  plow.  The  fields  look  half 
conscious,  and  if  ever  the  cattle  have  "  great  and  tran- 
quil thoughts,"  as  Emerson  suggests  they  do,  it  must 
be  when  lying  upon  these  lawns  and  meadows.  I 
noticed  that  the  trees,  the  oaks  and  elms,  looked  like 
fruit-trees,  or  as  if  they  had  felt  the  humanizing  in- 
fluences of  so  many  generations  of  men,  and  were  be- 


160  AN   OCTOBER  ABROAD. 

taking  themselves  from  the  woods  to  the  orchard. 
The  game  is  more  than  half  tame,  and  one  could 
easily  understand  that  it  had  a  keeper. 

But  the  look  of  those  fields  and  parks  went  straight 
to  my  heart.  It  is  not  merely  that  they  were  so 
smooth  and  cultivated,  but  that  they  were  so  benign 
and  maternal,  so  redolent  of  cattle  and  sheep  and  of 
patient,  homely,  farm  labor.  One  gets  only  here  and 
there  a  glimpse  of  such  in  this  country.  I  see  occa- 
sionally about  our  farms  a  patch  of  an  acre  or  half 
acre  upon  which  has  settled  this  atmosphere  of  ripe 
and  loving  husbandry  ;  a  choice  bit  of  meadow  about 
the  barn  or  orchard,  or  near  the  house,  which  has 
had  some  special  fattening,  perhaps  been  the  site  of 
some  former  garden,  or  barn,  or  homestead,  or  which 
has  had  the  wash  of  some  building,  where  the  feet  of 
children  have  played  for  generations,  and  the  flocks 
and  herds  been  fed  in  winter,  and  where  they  love  to 
lie  and  ruminate  at  night —  a  piece  of  sward  thick  and 
smooth,  and  full  of  warmth  and  nutriment,  where  the 
grass  is  greenest  and  freshest  in  spring,  and  the  hay 
finest  and  thickest  in  summer. 

This  is  the  character  of  the  whole  of  England  that 
I  saw.  I  had  been  told  I  should  see  a  garden,  but  I 
did  not  know  before  to  what  extent  the  earth  could 
become  a  living  repository  of  the  virtues  of  so  many 
generations  of  gardeners.  The  tendency  to  run  to 
weeds  and  wild  growths  seems  to  have  been  utterly 
eradicated  from  the  soil,  and  if  anything  were  to 
spring  up  spontaneously,  I  think  it  would  be  cabbage 
and  turnips,  or  grass  and  grain. 


MELLOW   ENGLAND.  161 

And  yet,  to  American  eyes,  the  country  seems 
quite  uninhabited,  there  are  so  few  dwellings,  and  so 
few  people.  Such  a  landscape  at  home  would  be  dot- 
ted all  over  with  thrifty  farm-houses,  each  with  its 
group  of  painted  out-buildings,  and  along  every  road 
and  highway  would  be  seen  the  well-to-do  turnouts 
of  the  independent  freeholders.  But  in  England  the 
dwellings  of  the  poor  people,  the  farmers,  are  so 
humble  and  inconspicuous  and  are  really  so  far  apart, 
and  the  halls  and  the  country-seats  of  the  aristocracy 
are  so  hidden  in  the  midst  of  vast  estates,  that  the 
landscape  seems  almost  deserted,  and  it  is  not  till  you 
see  the  towns  and  great  cities  that  you  can  under- 
stand where  so  vast  a  population  keeps  itself. 

Another  thing  that  would  be  quite  sure  to  strike 
my  eye  on  this  my  first  ride  across  British  soil  and 
on  all  subsequent  rides,  was  the  enormous  number  of 
birds  and  fowls  of  various  kinds  that  swarmed  in  the 
air  or  covered  the  ground.  It  was  truly  amazing. 
It  seemed  as  if  the  feathered  life  of  a  whole  continent 
must  have  been  concentrated  on  this  island.  Indeed, 
I  doubt  if  a  sweeping  together  of  all  the  birds  of  the 
United  States  into  any  two  of  the  largest  States, 
would  people  the  earth  and  air  more  fully.  There 
appeared  to  be  a  plover,  a  crow,  a  rook,  a  blackbird, 
and  a  sparrow,  to  every  square  yard  of  ground.  They 
know  the  value  of  birds  in  Britain  —  that  they  are 
the  friends,  not  the  enemies,  of  the  farmer.  It  must 
be  the  paradise  of  crows  and  rooks.  It  did  me  good 
to  see  them  so  much  at  home  about  the  fields  and 
11 


162  AN   OCTOBEE    ABROAD. 

even  in  the  towns.  I  was  glad  also  to  see  that  the 
British  crow  was  not  a  stranger  to  me,  and  that  he 
differed  from  his  brother  on  the  American  side  of  the 
Atlantic  only  in  being  less  alert  and  cautious,  having 
less  use  for  these  qualities. 

Now  and  then  the  train  would  start  up  some  more 
tempting  game.  A  brace  or  two  of  partridges  or  a 
covey  of  quails  would  settle  down  in  the  stubble,  or  a 
cock  pheasant  drop  head  and  tail  and  slide  into  the 
copse.  Rabbits  also  would  scamper  back  from  the 
borders  of  the  fields  into  the  thickets  or  peep  slyly 
out,  making  my  sportsman's  fingers  tingle. 

I  have  no  doubt  I  should  be  a  notorious  poacher  in 
England.  How  could  an  American  see  so  much 
game  and  not  wish  to  exterminate  it  entirely  as  he 
does  at  home  ?  But  sporting  is  an  expensive  luxury 
here.  In  the  first  place  a  man  pays  a  heavy  tax  on 
his  gun,  nearly  or  quite  half  its  value ;  then  he  has 
to  have  a  license  to  hunt,  for  which  he  pays  smartly, 
then  permission  from  the  owner  of  the  land  upon 
which  he  wishes  to  hunt,  so  that  the  game  is  hedged 
about  by  a  triple  safeguard. 

An  American,  also,  will  be  at  once  struck  with  the 
look  of  greater  substantiality  and  completeness  in 
everything  he  sees  here.  No  temporizing,  no  make- 
shifts, no  evidence  of  hurry,  or  failure,  or  contract 
work ;  no  wood  and  little  paint,  but  plenty  of  iron 
and  brick  and  stone.  This  people  have  taken  plenty 
of  time,  and  have  built  broad  and  deep,  and  placed 
the  cap-stone  on.  All  this  I  had  been  told,  but  it 


MELLOW   ENGLAND.  163 

pleased  me  so  in  the  seeing  that  I  must  tell  it  again. 
It  is  worth  a  voyage  across  the  Atlantic  to  see  the 
bridges  alone.  I  believe  I  had  seen  little  other  than 
wooden  bridges  before,  and  in  England  I  saw  not 
one  such,  but  everywhere  solid  arches  of  masonry, 
that  were  refreshing  and  reassuring  to  behold.  Even 
the  lanes  and  by-ways  about  the  farm,  I  noticed, 
crossed  the  little  creeks  with  a  span  upon  which 
an  elephant  would  not  hesitate  to  tread,  or  artillery 
trains  to  pass.  There  is  no  form  so  pleasing  to  look 
upon  as  the  arch,  or  that  affords  so  much  food  and 
suggestion  to  the  mind.  It  seems  to  stimulate  the  vo- 
lition, the  will-power,  and  for  my  part,  I  cannot  look 
upon  a  noble  span  without  a  feeling  of  envy,  for  I 
know  the  hearts  of  heroes  are  thus  keyed  and  forti- 
fied. The  arch  is  the  symbol  of  strength  and  activity, 
and  of  rectitude. 

In  Europe  I  took  a  new  lease  of  this  feeling,  this 
partiality  for  the  span,  and  had  daily  opportunities  to 
indulge  and  confirm  it.  In  London  I  had  immense 
satisfaction  in  observing  the  bridges  there  and  in 
walking  over  them,  firm  as  the  geological  strata,  and 
as  enduring.  London  Bridge,  Waterloo  Bridge 
Blackfriars,  etc.,  clearing  the  river  in  a  few  gigantic 
leaps,  like  things  of  life  and  motion  —  to  pass  over 
one  of  these  bridges  or  to  sail  under  it  awakens  the 
emotion  of  the  sublime.  I  think  the  moral  value  of 
such  a  bridge  as  the  Waterloo  must  be  inestimable. 
It  seems  to  me  the  British  Empire  itself  is  stronger 
for  such  a  bridge,  and  that  all  public  and  private  vir- 


164  AN   OCTOBER   ABROAD. 

tues  are  stronger.  In  Paris,  too,  those  superb  monu- 
ments over  the  Seine  —  I  think  they  alone  ought  to 
inspire  the  citizens  with  a  love  of  permanence,  and 
help  hold  them  to  stricter  notions  of  law  and  depend- 
ence. No  doubt  kings  and  tyrants  know  the  value  of 
these  things,  and  as  yet  they  certainly  have  the  mo- 
nopoly of  them. 


I  am  too  good  a  countryman  to  feel  much  at  home 
in  cities,  and  usually  value  them  only  as  conveniences, 
but  for  London  I  conceived  quite  an  affection ;  per- 
haps because  it  is  so  much  like  a  natural  formation 
itself,  and  strikes  less-  loudly,  or  perhaps  sharply, 
upon  the  senses  than  our  great  cities  do.  It  is  a  for- 
est of  brick  and  stone  of  the  most  stupendous  dimen- 
sions, and  one  traverses  it  in  the  same  adventurous 
kind  of  way  that  he  does  woods  and  mountains.  The 
maze  and  tangle  of  streets  is  something  fearful,  and 
any  generalization  of  them  a  step  not  to  be  hastily 
taken.  My  experience  heretofore  had  been  that 
cities  generally  were  fractions  that  could  be  greatly 
reduced,  but  London  I  found  I  could  not  simplify, 
and  every  morning  for  weeks,  when  I  came  out  of 
my  hotel,  it  was  a  question  whether  my  course  lay  in 
this  direction  or  in  squarely  the  opposite.  It  has  no 
unit  of  structure,  but  is  a  vast  aggregation  of  streets 
and  houses,  or  in  fact  of  towns  and  cities,  which  have 
to  be  mastered  in  detail.  I  tried  the  third  or  fourth 
day  to  get  a  bird's-eye  view  from  the  top  of  St.  Paul's, 


MELLOW   ENGLAND.  165 

but  saw  through  the  rifts  in  the  smoke  only  a  waste 
—  literally  a  waste  of  red  tiles  and  chimney  pots. 
The  confusion  and  desolation  were  complete. 

But  I  finally  mastered  the  city,  in  a  measure,  by 
the  aid  of  a  shilling  map  which  I  carried  with  me 
wherever  I  went,  and  upon  which  when  I  was  lost  I 
would  hunt  myself  up,  thus  making  in  the  end  a  very 
suggestive  and  entertaining  map.  Indeed  every  inch 
of  this  piece  of  colored  paper  is  alive  to  me.  If  I  did 
not  make  the  map  itself,  I  at  least  verified  it,  which 
is  nearly  as  good,  and  the  verification,  on  street  cor- 
ner by  day,  and  under  lamp  or  by  shop  window  at 
night,  was  often  a  matter  of  so  much  concern  that  I 
doubt  if  the  original  surveyor  himself  put  more  heart 
into  certain  parts  of  his  work  than  I  did  in  the  proof 
of  them. 

London  has  less  metropolitan  splendor  than  New 
York,  and  less  of  the  full-blown  pride  of  the  shopman. 
Its  stores  are  not  nearly  so  big,  and  it  has  no  sign- 
boards that  contain  over  one  thousand  feet  of  lumber, 
neither  did  I  see  any  names  painted  on  the  gable  ends 
of  the  buildings  that  the  man  in  the  moon  could  read 
without  his  opera-glass.  I  went  out  one  day  to  look 
up  one  of  the  great  publishing  houses,  and  passed  it 
and  repassed  it  several  times  trying  to  find  the  sign. 
Finally,  having  made  sure  of  the  building,  I  found  the 
name  of  the  firm  cut  into  the  door  jamb. 

London  seems  to  have  been  built  and  peopled  by 
countrymen,  who  have  preserved  all  the  rural  remi- 
niscences possible.  All  its  great  streets  or  avenues 


166  AN  OCTOBER  ABROAD. 

are  called  roads,  as  Kiog's  Road,  City  Eoad,  Edge- 
ware  Road,  Tottenham  Court  Road,  etc.,  with  innu- 
merable lesser  roads.  Then  there  are  lanes  and  walks, 
and  such  rural  names  among  the  streets  as  Long 
Acre,  Snowhill,  Poultry,  Bush-lane,  Hill-road,  Houns- 
ditch,  etc.,  and  not  one  grand  street  or  imperial 
avenue. 

My  visit  fell  at  a  most  favorable  juncture  as  to 
weather,  there  being  but  few  rainy  days  and  but  little 
fog.  I  had  imagined  that  they  had  barely  enough  fair 
weather  in  London,  at  any  season,  to  keep  alive  the 
tradition  of  sunshine  and  of  blue  sky,  but  the  October 
days  I  spent  there  were  not  so  very  far  behind  what 
we  have  at  home  at  this  season.  London  often  puts 
on  a  night-cap  of  smoke  and  fog,  which  it  pulls  down 
over  its  ears  pretty  close  at  times,  and  the  sun  has  a 
habit  of  lying  abed  very  late  in-  the  morning,  which 
all  the  people  imitate ;  but  I  remember  some  very 
pleasant  weather  there,  and  some  bright  moonlight 
nights. 

I  saw  but  one  full-blown  characteristic  London  fog. 
I  was  in  the  National  Gallery  one  day,  trying  to  make 
up  my  mind  about  Turner,  when  this  chimney-pot 
meteor  came  down.  It  was  like  a  great  j'ellow  dog 
taking  possession  of  the  world.  The  light  faded  from 
the  room,  the  pictures  ran  together  in  confused  masses 
of  shadow  on  the  walls,  and  in  the  street  only  a  dim 
yellowish  twilight  prevailed,  through  which  faintly 
twinkled  the  lights  in  the  shop  windows.  Vehicles 
came  slowly  out  of  the  dirty  obscurity  on  one  side  and 


MELLOW   ENGLAND.  167 

plunged  into  it  on  the  other.  "Waterloo  Bridge  gave 
one  or  two  leaps  and  disappeared,  and  the  Nelson 
Column  in  Trafalgar  Square  was  obliterated  for  half 
its  length.  Travel  was  impeded,  boats  stopped  on  the 
river,  trains  stood  still  on  the  track  and  for  an  hour 
and  a  half  London  lay  buried  beneath  this  sickening 
eruption.  I  say  eruption,  because  a  London  fog  is 
only  a  London  smoke,  tempered  by  a  moist  atmos- 
phere. It  is  called  "fog"  by  courtesy, but  lampblack 
is  its  chief  ingredient.  It  is  not  wet  like  our  fogs,  but 
quite  dry,  and  makes  the  eyes  smart  and  the  nose 
tingle.  Whenever  the  sun  can  be  seen  through  it, 
his  face  is  red  and  dirty;  seen  through  a  bond jide 
fog  his  face  is  clean  and  white.  English  coal,  —  or 
"  coals  "  as  they  say  here, —  in  burning  gives  out  an 
enormous  quantity  of  thick,  yellowish  smoke,  which 
is  at  no  time  absorbed  or  dissipated  as  it  would  be  in 
our  hard,  dry  atmosphere,  and  which  at  certain  times 
is  not  absorbed  at  all,  but  falls  down  swollen  and 
augmented  by  the  prevailing  moisture.  The  atmos- 
phere of  the  whole  island  is  more  or  less  impregnated 
with  smoke,  even  on  the  fairest  days,  and  it  becomes 
more  and  more  dense  as  you  approach  the  great 
towns.  Yet  this  compound  of  smut,  fog,  and  common 
air  is  an  elixir  of  youth ;  and  this  is  one  of  the  sur- 
prises of  London,  to  see  amid  so  much  soot  and  dingi- 
ness  such  fresh,  blooming  complexions  and  in  general 
such  a  fine  physical  tone  and  full-bloodedness  among 
the  people  —  such  as  one  has  come  to  associate  only 
with  the  best  air  and  the  purest,  wholesomest  country 


168  AN   OCTOBER   ABROAD. 

influences.  What  the  secret  of  it  may  be,  I  am  at  a 
loss  to  know,  unless  it  is  that  the  moist  atmosphere 
does  not  dry  up  the  blood  as  our  air  does  and  that 
the  carbon  and  creosote  have  some  rare  antiseptic 
arid  preservative  qualities,  as  doubtless  they  have,  that 
are  efficacious  in  the  human  physiology.  It  is  no 
doubt  true,  also,  that  the  people  do  not  tan  in  this 
climate,  as  in  ours,  and  that  the  delicate  flesh  tints 
show  more  on  that  account. 

I  speak  thus  of  these  things  with  reference  to  our 
standards  at  home,  because  I  found  that  these  stand- 
ards were  ever  present  in  my  mind,  and  that  I  was 
unconsciously  applying  them  to  whatever  I  saw,  and 
wherever  I  went,  and  often,  as  I  shall  have  occasion 
to  show,  to  their  discredit. 

Climate  is  a  great  matter,  and  no  doubt  many  of 
the  differences  between  the  English  stock  at  home 
and  its  offshoot  in  our  country,  are  traceable  to  this 
source.  Our  climate  is  more  heady  and  less  sto- 
machic than  the  English ;  sharpens  the  wit,  but  dries 
up  the  fluids  and  viscera ;  favors  an  irregular,  nervous 
energy,  but  exhausts  the  animal  spirits.  It  is,  per- 
haps, on  this  account  that  I  have  felt  since  my  return 
how  much  easier  it  is  to  be  a  dyspeptic  here  than  in 
Great  Britain.  One's  appetite  is  keener  and  more 
ravenous,  and  the  temptation  to  bolt  one's  food 
greater.  The  American  is  not  so  hearty  an  eater  as 
the  Englishman,  but  the  forces  of  his  body  are  con- 
stantly leaving  his  stomach  in  the  lurch,  and  running 
off  into  his  hands  and  feet  and  head.  His  eyes  are 


MELLOW   ENGLAND.  169 

bigger  than  his  belly,  but  an  Englishman's  belly  is 
a  deal  larger  than  his  eyes,  and  the  number  of  plum 
puddings  and  amount  of  Welsh  rare-bit  he  devours 
annually  would  send  the  best  of  us  to  his  grave  in 
half  that  time.  We  have  not  enough  constitutional 
inertia  and  stolidity ;  our  climate  gives  us  no  rest, 
but  goads  us  day  and  night,  and  the  consequent  wear 
and  tear  of  life  is  no  doubt  greater  in  this  country 
than  in  any  other  on  the  globe.  We  are  playing  the 
game  more  rapidly,  and  I  fear  less  thoroughly  and 
sincerely  than  the  mother  country. 

The  more  uniform  good  health  of  English  women 
is  thought  to  be  a  matter  of  exercise  in  the  open  air, 
as  walking,  riding,  etc.,  but  the  prime  reason  is 
mainly  a  climatic  one,  uniform  habits  of  exercise  being 
more  easity  kept  up  in  that  climate  than  in  this  and 
being  less  exhaustive,  one  day  with  another.  You 
can  walk  there  every  day  in  the  year  without  much 
discomfort,  and  the  stimulus  is  about  the  same.  Here 
it  is  too  hot  in  summer  and  too  cold  in  winter,  or 
else  it  keys  you  up  too  tight  one  day  and  unstrings 
you  the  next ;  all  fire  and  motion  in  the  morning 
and  all  listlessness  and  ennui  in  the  afternoon ;  a 
spur  one  hour  and  a  sedative  the  next. 

A  watch  will  not  keep  as  steady  time  here  as  in 
Britain  and  the  human  clock-work  is  more  liable  to 
get  out  of  repair  for  the  same  reason.  Our  women, 
especially,  break  down  prematurely,  and  the  decay  of 
maternity  in  this  country  is  no  doubt  greater  than  in 
any  of  the  oldest  civilized  communities.  One  reason, 


170  AN   OCTOBER   ABEOAD. 


doubtless,  is  that  our  women  are  the  greatest 
of  fashion  in  the  whole  world,  and  in  following  the 
whims  of  that  famous  courtesan  have  the  most  fickle 
and  destructive  climate  to  contend  with. 

English  women  all  have  good-sized  feet,  and  Eng- 
lishmen, too,  and  wear  large,  comfortable  shoes.  This 
was  a  noticeable  feature  at  once  ;  coarse,  loose-fitting 
clothes  of  both  sexes,  and  large  boots  and  shoes  with 
low  heels.  They  evidently  knew  the  use  of  their 
feet,  and  had  none  of  the  French,  or  American,  or 
Chinese  fastidiousness  about  this  part  of  their  anat- 
omy. I  notice  that  when  a  family  begins  to  run  out, 
it  turns  out  its  toes,  drops  off  at  the  heel,  shortens 
its  jaw,  and  dotes  on  small  feet  and  hands. 

Another  promoter  of  health  in  England  is  woolen 
clothes,  which  are  worn  the  year  round,  the  summer 
driving  people  into  no  such  extremities  as  here.  And 
the  good,  honest  woolen  stuffs  of  one  kind  and  an- 
other that  fill  the  shops,  attest  the  need  and  the  taste 
that  prevails.  They  had  a  garment  when  I  was  in 
London  called  the  Ulster  overcoat  —  a  coarse,  shaggy, 
bungling  coat,  with  a  skirt  nearly  reaching  to  the 
feet,  very  ugly,  tried  by  the  fashion  plates,  but  very 
comfortable,  and  quite  the  fashion.  This  very  sen- 
sible garment  has  since  become  well  known  in  Amer- 
ica. 

The  Americans  in  London  were  put  out  with  the 
tailors,  and  could  rarely  get  suited,  on  account  of  the 
loose  cutting  and  the  want  of  "  style."  But  "  style  " 
is  the  hiatus  that  threatens  to  swallow  us  all  one  of 


MELLOW   ENGLAND.  171 

these  days.  About  the  only  monstrosity  I  saw  iu 
the  British  man's  dress  was  the  stove-pipe  hat,  which 
everybody  wears.  At  first  I  feared  it  might  be  a 
police  regulation  or  a  requirement  of  the  British 
Constitution,  for  I  seemed  to  be  about  the  only  man 
in  the  kingdom  with  a  soft  hat  on,  and  I  had  noticed 
that  before  leaving  the  steamer  every  man  brought 
out  from  its  hiding-place  one  of  these  polished  brain 
squeezers.  Even  the  boys  wear  them  —  youths  of 
nine  and  ten  years  with  little  stove-pipe  hats  on  ; 
and  at  Eton  School  I  saw  black  swarms  of  them  — 
even  the  boys  in  the  field  were  playing  foot-ball  in 
stove-pipe  hats. 

What  we  call  beauty  in  woman  is  so  much  a  mat- 
ter of  youth  and  health  that  the  average  of  female 
beauty  in  London  is,  I  believe,  higher  than  in  this 
country.  English  women  are  comely  and  good-look- 
ing. It  is  an  extremely  fresh  and  pleasant  face  that 
you  see  everywhere  —  softer,  less  clearly  and  sharply 
cut  than  the  typical  female  face  in  this  country  —  less 
spirituelle,  less  perfect  in  form,  but  stronger  and 
sweeter.  There  is  more  blood,  and  heart,  and  sub- 
stance back  of  it.  The  American  race  of  the  pres- 
ent generation  is  doubtless  the  most  shapely,  both  in 
face  and  figure,  that  has  yet  appeared.  American 
children  are  far  less  crude,  and  lumpy,  and  awkward 
looking  than  European  children.  One  generation  in 
this  country  suffices  vastly  to  improve  the  looks  of 
the  offspring  of  the  Irish  or  German  or  Norwegian 
emigrant.  There  is  surely*  something  in  our  climate 


172  AX   OCTOBER   ABROAD. 

or  conditions  that  speedily  refines  and  sharpens,  and, 
shall  I  add,  hardens  ?  the  human  features.  The  face 
loses  something,  but  it  comes  into  shape ;  and  of  such 
beauty  as  is  the  product  of  this  tendency  we  can  un- 
doubtedly show  more,  especially  in  our  women,  than 
the  parent  stock,  in  Europe ;  while  American  school- 
girls, I  believe,  have  the  most  bewitching  beauty  in 
the  world. 

The  English  plainness  of  speech  is  observable 
even  in  the  signs  or  notices  along  the  streets.  In- 
stead of  "  Lodging,"  "  Lodging,"  as  with  us,  one  sees 
"  Beds,"  "  Beds,"  which  has  a  very  homely  sound ; 
and  in  place  of  "  gentlemen's  "  this,  that,  or  the  other, 
about  public  places,  the  word  "men's"  is  used. 

I  suppose  if  it  was  not  for  the  bond  of  a  written 
language  and  perpetual  intercourse,  the  two  nations 
would  not  be  able  to  understand  each  other  in  the 
course  of  a  hundred  years,  the  inflection  and  accent- 
uation is  so  different.  I  recently  heard  an  English 
lady  say,  referring  to  the  American  speech,  that  she 
could  hardly  believe  her  own  language  could  be 
spoken  so  strangely. 

ARCHITECTURE. 

One  sees  right  away  that  the  English  are  a  home 
people,  a  domestic  people.  And  he  does  not  need  to 
go  into  their  houses  or  homes  to  find  this  out.  It  is 
in  the  air  and  in  the  general  aspect  of  things.  Every 
where  you  see  the  virtue  and  quality  that  we  ascribe 
to  home-made  articles.  It  seems  as  if  things  had 


MELLOW   ENGLAND.  173 

been  made  by  hand,  and  with  care  and  affection,  as 
they  have  been.  The  land  of  caste  and  kings,  there 
is  yet  less  glitter  and  display  than  in  this  country, 
less  publicity,  and,  of  course,  less  rivalry  and  emula- 
tion also,  for  which  we  pay  very  dearly.  You  have 
got  to  where  the  word  homely  preserves  its  true  sig- 
nification, and  is  no  longer  a  term  of  disparagement, 
but  expressive  of  a  cardinal  virtue. 

I  liked  the  English  habit  of  naming  their  houses ; 
it  shows  the  importance  they  attach  to  their  homes. 
All  about  the  suburbs  of  London  and  in  the  outlying 
villages  I  noticed  nearly  every  house  and  cottage  had 
some  appropriate  designation,  as  Terrace  House, 
Oaktree  House,  Ivy  Cottage,  or  some  Villa,  etc., 
usually  cut  into  the  stone  gate  post,  and  this  name  is 
put  on  the  address  of  the  letters.  How  much  better 
to  be  known  by  your  name  than  by  your  number ! 
I  believe  the  same  custom  prevails  in  the  country, 
and  is  common  to  the  middle  classes  as  well  as  to  the 
aristocracy.  It  is  a  good  feature.  A  house  or  a 
farm  with  an  appropriate  name,  which  everybody  rec- 
ognizes, must  have  an  added  value  and  importance. 

Modern  English  houses  are  less  showy  than  ours, 
and  have  more  weight  and  permanence — no  flat  roofs 
and  no  painted  outside  shutters.  Indeed,  that  pride 
of  American  country  people,  and  that  abomination 
in  the  landscape,  a  white  house  with  green  blinds,  I 
did  not  see  a  specimen  of  in  England.  They  do 
not  aim  to  make  their  houses  conspicuous,  but  the 
contrary.  They  make  a  large,  yellowish  brick  that 


174  AN   OCTOBER   ABROAD. 

has  a  pleasing  effect  in  the  wall.  Then  a  very  short 
space  of  time  in  that  climate  suffices  to  take  off  the 
effect  of  newness,  and  give  a  mellow,  sober  hue  to 
the  building.  Another  advantage  of  the  climate  is 
that  it  permits  outside  plastering.  Thus  almost  any 
stone  may  be  imitated,  and  the  work  endure  for  ages ; 
while  our  sudden  changes,  and  extremes  of  heat  and 
cold,  of  dampness  and  dryness,  will  cause  the-  best 
work  of  this  kind  to  peel  off  in  a  few  years. 

Then  this  people  have  better  taste  in  building  than 
we  have,  perhaps  because  they  have  the  noblest  sam- 
ples and  specimens  of  architecture  constantly  before 
them  —  those  old  feudal  castles  and  royal  residences, 
for  instance.  I  was  astonished  to  see  how  homely 
and  good  they  looked,  how  little  they  challenged  ad- 
miration, and  how  much  they  emulate  rocks  and  trees. 
They  were  surely  built  in  a  simpler  and  more  poetic 
age  than  this.  It  was  like  meeting  some  plain,  natu- 
ral nobleman  after  contact  with  one  of  the  bedizened, 
artificial  sort.  The  Tower  of  London,  for  instance,  is 
as  pleasing  to  the  eye,  has  the  same  fitness  and  har- 
mony, as  a  hut  in  the  woods  ;  and  I  should  think  an 
artist  might  have  the  same  pleasure  in  copying  it 
into  his  picture  as  he  would  in  copying  a  pioneer's 
log  cabin.  So  with  "Windsor  Castle,  which  has  the 
beauty  of  a  ledge  of  rocks,  and  crowns  the  hill  like  a 
vast  natural  formation.  The  warm,  simple  interior, 
too,  of  these  castles  and  palaces,  the  honest  oak  with- 
out paint  or  varnish,  the  rich  wood  carvings,  the  ripe 
human  tone  and  atmosphere,  how  it  all  contrasts,  for 


MELLOW   ENGLAND.  175 

instance,  with  the  showy,  gilded,  cast-iron  interior  of 
our  commercial  or  political  palaces,  where  every- 
thing that  smacks  of  life  or  nature  is  studiously  ex- 
cluded under  the  necessity  of  making  the  building 
fire-proof. 

I  was  not  less  pleased  with  the  higher  ornamental 
architecture,  —  the  old  churches  and  cathedrals,  — 
which  appealed  to  me  in  a  way  architecture  had  never 
before  done.  In  fact,  I  found  that  1  had  never  seen 
architecture  before  —  a  building  with  genius  and 
power  in  it,  and  that  one  could  look  at  with  the 
eye  of  the  imagination.  Not  mechanics  merely,  but 
poets  had  wrought  and  planned  here,  and  the  granite 
was  tender  with  human  qualities.  The  plants  and 
weeds  growing  in  the  niches  and  hollows  of  the  walls ; 
the  rooks  and  martins  and  jackdaws  inhabiting  the 
towers  and  breeding  about  the  eaves,  are  but  types  of 
the  feelings  and  emotions  of  the  human  heart  that  flit 
and  hover  over  these  old  piles,  and  find  affectionate 
lodgment  in  them. 

Time,  of  course,  has  done  a  great  deal  for  this  old 
architecture.  Nature  has  taken  it  lovingly  to  her- 
self, has  set  her  seal  upon  it,  and  adopted  it  into  her 
system.  Just  the  foil  which  beauty,  —  especially  the 
crystallic  beauty  of  architecture,  —  needs,  has  been 
given  by  this  hazy,  mellowing  atmosphere.  As  the 
grace  and  suggestiveness  of  all  objects  are  enhanced 
by  a  fall  of  snow,  —  forest,  fence,  hive,  shed,  knoll, 
rock,  tree,  all  being  laid  under  the  same  white  en- 
chantment, —  so  time  has  wrought  in  softening  and 


176  AN   OCTOBER   ABROAD. 

toning  down  this  old  religious  architecture,  and  bring- 
ing it  into  harmony  with  nature. 

Our  climate  has  a  much  keener  edge,  both  of  frost 
and  fire,  and  touches  nothing  so  gently  or  creatively  ; 
yet  time  would,  no  doubt,  do  much  for  our  architect- 
ure, if  we  would  give  it  a  chance  —  for  that  apotheosis 
of  prose,  the  National  Capitol  at  Washington,  upon 
which,  I  notice,  a  returned  traveler  bases  our  claim 
to  be  considered  "  ahead  "  of  the  Old  World,  even  in 
architecture ;  but  the  reigning  gods  interfere,  and 
each  spring  or  fall  give  the  building  a  clean  shirt,  in 
the  shape  of  a  coat  of  white  paint.  In  like  manner, 
other  public  buildings  never  become  acclimated,  but 
are  annually  scoured  with  soap  and  sand,  the  national 
passion  for  the  brightness  of  newness  interfering  to 
defeat  any  benison  which  the  gods  might  be  disposed 
to  pronounce  upon  them.  Spotlessness,  I  know,  is 
not  a  characteristic  of  our  politics,  though  it  is  said 
that  whitewashing  is,  which  may  account  for  this 
ceaseless  paint-pot  renovation  of  our  public  buildings. 
In  a  world  lit  only  by  the  moon  our  Capitol  would 
be  a  paragon  of  beauty,  and  the  spring  whitewash- 
ing could  also  be  endured  ;  but  under  our  blazing  sun 
and  merciless  sky  it  parches  the  vision,  and  makes  it 
turn  with  a  feeling  of  relief  to  rocks  and  trees,  or  to 
some  weather-stained,  dilapidated  shed  or  hovel. 

How  winningly  and  picturesquely  in  comparison 
the  old  architecture  of  London  addresses  itself  to  the 
eye  —  St  Paul's  Cathedral,  for  instance,  with  its  vast 
blotches  and  stains,  as  if  it  had  been  dipped  in  some 


MELLOW   ENGLAND.  177 

black  Lethe  of  oblivion,  and  then  left  to  be  restored 
by  the  rains  and  the  elements.  This  black  Lethe  is 
the  London  smoke  and  fog,  which  has  left  a  dark  de- 
posit over  all  the  building,  except  the  upper  and  more 
exposed  parts,  where  the  original  silvery  whiteness  of 
the  stone  shows  through,  the  effect  of  the  whole  thus 
being  like  one  of  those  graphic  Rembrandt  photo- 
graphs or  carbons,  the  prominences  in  a  strong  light, 
and  the  rest  in  deepest  shadow.  I  was  never  tired  of 
looking  at  this  noble  building,  and  of  going  out  of  my 
way  to  walk  around  it,  but  J  am  at  a  loss  to  know 
whether  the  pleasure  I  had  in  it  arose  from  my  love 
of  nature  or  from  a  susceptibility  to  art  for  which  I 
had  never  given  myself  credit.  Perhaps  from  both, 
for  I  seemed  to  behold  Art  turning  toward  and  rev- 
erently acknowledging  Nature  —  indeed,  in  a  manner 
already  become  Nature. 

I  believe  the  critics  of  such  things  find  plenty  of 
fault  with  St.  Paul's ;  and  even  I  could  see  that  its 
bigness  was  a  little  prosy,  that  it  suggested  the  his- 
toric rather  than  the  poetic  muse,  etc.  ;  yet,  for  all 
that,  I  could  never  look  at  it  without  a  profound 
emotion.  Viewed  coolly  and  critically  it  might 
seem  like  a  vast  specimen  of  Episcopalianism  in  ar- 
chitecture. Miltonic  in  its  grandeur  and  proportions, 
and  Mil  tonic  in  its  prosiness  and  mongrel  classicism 
also,  yet  its  power  and  effectiveness  are  unmistaka- 
ble. The  beholder  has  no  vantage  ground  from 
which  to  view  it,  or  take  in  its  total  effect,  on  account 
of  its  being  so  closely  beset  by  such  a  mob  of  shops 
12 


178  AN   OCTOBER   ABROAD. 

and  buildings  ;  yet  the  glimpses  he  does  get  here  and 
there  through  the  opening  made  by  some  street, 
when  passing  in  its  vicinity,  are  very  striking  and 
suggestive ;  the  thin  veil  of  smoke,  which  is  here  as 
constant  and  uniform  as  the  atmosphere  itself,  wrap- 
ping it  about  with  the  enchantment  of  time  and  dis- 
tance. 

The  interior  I  found  even  more  impressive  than 
the  exterior,  perhaps  because  I  was  unprepared  for 
it.  I  had  become  used  to  imposing  exteriors  at  home, 
and  did  not  reflect  that  in  a  structure  like  this  I 
should  see  an  interior  also,  and  that  here  alone  the 
soul  of  the  building  would  be  fully  revealed.  It  was 
Miltonic  in  the  best  sense ;  it  was  like  the  mightiest 
organ  music  put  into  form.  Such  depths,  such  solemn 
vastness,  such  gulfs  and  abysses  of  architectural  space, 
the  rich,  mellow  light,  the  haze  outside  becoming  a 
mysterious,  hallowing  presence  within,  quite  mas- 
tered me,  and  I  sat  down  upon  a  seat,  feeling  my  first 
genuine  cathedral  intoxication.  As  it  was  really  an 
intoxication,  a  sense  of  majesty  and  power  quite 
overwhelming  in  my  then  uncloyed  condition,  I  speak 
of  it  the  more  freely.  My  companions  rushed  about 
as  if  each  one  had  had  a  search-warrant  in  his  pocket ; 
but  I  was  content  to  uncover  my  head  and  drop  into 
a  seat,  and  busy  my  mind  with  some  simple  object 
near  at  hand,  while  the  sublimity  that  soared  about 
me  stole  into  my  soul,  and  possessed  it.  My  sensa- 
tion was  like  that  imparted  by  suddenly  reaching  a 
great  altitude  ;  there  was  a  sort  of  relaxation  of  the 


ilKLLOW   ENGLAND.  179 

muscles,  followed  by  a  sense  of  physical  weakness, 
and  after  half  an  hour  or  so  I  felt  compelled  to  go 
out  into  the  open  air,  and  leave  till  another  day  the 
final  survey  of  the  building.  Next  day  I  came  back, 
but  there  can  be  only  one  first  time,  and  I  could  not 
again  surprise  myself  with  the  same  feeling  of  won- 
der and  intoxication.  But  St.  Paul's  will  bear  many 
visits.  I  came  again  and  again,  and  never  grew  tired 
of  it.  Crossing  its  threshold  was  entering  another 
world,  where  the  silence  and  solitude  were  so  pro- 
found and  overpowering,  that  the  noise  of  the  streets 
outside,  or  of  the  stream  of  visitors,  or  of  the  work- 
men engaged  on  the  statuary,  made  no  impression. 
They  were  all  belittled,  lost,  like  the  humming  of 
flies.  Even  the  afternoon  services,  the  chanting,  and 
the  tremendous  organ,  were  no  interruption,  and  left 
me  just  as  much  alone  as  ever.  They  only  served  to 
set  off  the  silence,  to  fathom  its  depth. 

The  dome  of  St.  Paul's  is  the  original  of  our  dome 
at  Washington ;  but  externally  I  think  ours  is  the 
more  graceful  of  the  two,  though  the  effect  inside  is 
tame  and  flat  in  comparison.  This  is  owing  partly  to 
the  lesser  size  and  height,  and  partly  to  our  hard, 
transparent  atmosphere,  which  lends  no  charm  or  il- 
lusion, but  mainly  to  the  stupid,  unimaginative  plan 
of  it.  Our  dome  shuts  down  like  an  inverted  iron 
pot ;  there  is  no  vista,  no  outlook,  no  relation,  and 
hence  no  proportion.  You  open  a  door  and  are  in  a 
circular  pen,  and  can  look  in  only  one  direction  — 
up.  If  the  iron  pot  were  slashed  through  here  and 


180  AN  OCTOBER   ABROAD. 

there,  or  if  it  rested  on  a  row  of  tall  columns,  or 
piers,  and  was  shown  to  be  a  legitimate  part  of  the 
building,  it  would  not  appear  the  exhausted  receiver 
it  does  now. 

The  dome  of  St.  Paul's  is  the  culmination  of  the 
whole  interior  of  the  building.  Rising  over  the  cen- 
tral area,  it  seems  to  gather  up  the  power  and  maj- 
esty of  the  nave,  the  aisles,  the  transepts,  the  choir, 
and  give  them  expression  and  expansion  in  its  lofty 
firmament. 

Then  those  colossal  piers,  forty  feet  broad,  some  of 
them,  and  nearly  one  hundred  feet  high  ;  they  easily 
eclipsed  what  I  had  recently  seen  in  a  mine,  and 
which  I  at  the  time,  imagined  shamed  all  the  architect- 
ure of  the  world  —  where  the  mountain  was  upheld 
over  a  vast  space  by  massive  piers  left  by  the  miners, 
with  a  ceiling  unrolled  over  your  head,  and  appar- 
ently descending  upon  you,  that  looked  like  a  petrified 
thundercloud. 

The  view  from  the  upper  gallery,  or  top  of  the 
dome  looking  down  inside,  is  most  impressive.  The 
public  are  not  admitted  to  this  gallery,  for  fear,  the 
keeper  told  me,  it  would  become  the  scene  of  suicides ; 
people  unable  to  withstand  the  terrible  fascination 
would  leap  into  the  yawning  gulf.  But  with  the  priv- 
ilege usually  accorded  to  Americans,  I  stepped  down 
into  the  narrow  circle,  and  leaning  over  the  balustrade, 
coolly  looked  the  horrible  temptation  in  the  face. 

On  the  whole,  St.  Paul's  is  so  vast  and  imposing 
that  one  wonders  what  occasion  or  what  ceremony  can 


MELLOW  ENGLAND.  181 

rise  to  the  importance  of  not  being  utterly  dwarfed 
within  its  walls.  The  annual  gathering  of  the  char- 
ity children,  ten  or  twelve  thousand  in  number,  must 
make  a  ripple  or  two  upon  its  solitude,  or  an  exhibi- 
tion like  the  thanksgiving  of  the  Queen,  when  sixteen 
or  eighteen  thousand  persons  were  assembled  beneath 
its  roof.  But  one  cannot  forget  that  it  is,  for  the 
most  part,  a  great  toy  —  a  mammoth  shell,  whose 
bigness  bears  no  proportion  to  the  living  (if,  indeed, 
it  is  living),  indwelling  necessity.  It  is  a  tenement 
so  large  that  the  tenant  looks  cold  and  forlorn,  and 
in  danger  of  being  lost  within  it. 

Xo  such  objection  can  be  made  to  Westminster 
Abbey,  which  is  a  mellow,  picturesque  old  place,  the 
interior  arrangement  and  architecture  of  which  affects 
one  like  some  ancient,  dilapidated  forest.  Even  the 
sunlight  streaming  through  the  dim  windows,  and 
falling  athwart  the  misty  air,  was  like  the  sunlight  of 
a  long  gone  age.  The  very  atmosphere  was  pensive, 
and  filled  the  tall  spaces  like  a  memory  and  a  dream. 
I  sat  down  and  listened  to  the  choral  service  and  to 
the  organ,  which  blended  perfectly  with  the  spirit  and 
sentiment  of  the  place. 

ON    THE    SOUTH  DOWNS. 

One  of  my  best  days  in  England  was  spent  amid 
the  singing  of  skylarks  on  the  South  Down  Hills, 
near  an  old  town  at  the  mouth  of  the  Little  Ouse, 
where  I  paused  on  my  way  to  France.  The  pros- 
pect of  hearing  one  or  two  of  the  classical  birds  of 


182  AN   OCTOBER  ABROAD. 

the  Old  World  had  not  been  the  least  of  the  attrac- 
tions of  my  visit,  though  I  knew  the  chances  were 
against  me  so  late  in  the  season,  and  I  have  to  thank 
my  good  genius  for  guiding  me  to  the  right  place  at 
the  right  time.  To  get  out  of  London  was  delight 
enough,  and  then  to  find  myself  quite  unexpectedly 
on  these  soft  rolling  hills,  of  a  mild  October  day, 
in  full  sight  of  the  sea,  with  the  larks  pouring  out 
their  gladness  overhead,  was  to  me  good  fortune  in- 
deed. 

The  South  Downs  form  a  very  remarkable  feature 
of  this  part  of  England,  and  are  totally  unlike  any 
other  landscape  I  ever  saw.  I  believe  it  is  Huxley 
who  applies  to  them  the  epithet  of  muttony,  which 
they  certainly  deserve,  for  they  are  like  the  backs  of 
immense  sheep,  smooth,  and  round,  and  fat  —  so 
smooth  indeed,  that  the  eye  can  hardly  find  a  place 
to  take  hold  of,  not  a  tree,  or  bush,  or  fence,  or  house, 
or  rock,  or  stone,  or  other  object,  for  miles  and  miles, 
save  here  and  there  a  group  of  straw-capped  stacks, 
or  a  flock  of  sheep .  crawling  slowly  over  them,  at- 
tended by  a  shepherd  and  dog,  and  the  only  lines 
visible,  those  which  bound  the  squares  where  different 
crops  had  been  gathered.  The  soil  was  rich  and  mel- 
low, like  a  garden  — hills  of  chalk  with  a  pellicle  of 
black  loam. 

These  hills  stretch  a  great  distance  along  the  coast, 
and  are  cut  squarely  off  by  the  sea,  presenting  on  this 
side  a  chain  of  white  chalk  cliffs  suggesting  the  old 
Latin  name  of  this  land,  Albion. 


MELLOW    ENGLAND.  183 

Before  I  had  got  fifty  yards  from  the  station  I 
began  to  hear  the  larks,  and  being  unprepared  for 
them  I  was  a  little  puzzled  at  first,  but  was  not  long 
in  discovering  what  luck  I  was  in.  The  song  disap- 
pointed me  at  first,  being  less  sweet  and  melodious 
than  I  had  expected  to  hear,  indeed  I  thought  it  a 
little  sharp  and  harsh,  —  a  little  stubbly,  —  but  in 
other  respects,  in  strength  and  gladness  and  continu- 
ity, it  was  wonderful.  And  the  more  I  heard  it  the 
better  T  liked  it,  until  I  would  gladly  have  given  any 
of  my  songsters  at  home  for  a  bird  that  could  shower 
down  such  notes,  even  in  autumn.  Up,  up,  went  the 
bird,  describing  a  large  easy  spiral  till  he  attained  an 
altitude  of  three  or  four  hundred  feet,  when,  spread 
out  against  the  sky  for  a  space  of  ten  or  fifteen  min- 
utes, or  more,  he  poured  out  his  delight,  filling  all  the 
vault  with  sound.  The  song  is  of  the  sparrow  kind, 
and,  in  its  best  parts,  perpetually  suggested  the  notes 
of  our  vesper  sparrow ;  but  the  wonder  of  it  is  its  copi- 
ousness and  sustained  strength.  There  is  no  theme, 
no  beginning,  middle,  or  end,  like  most  of  our  best 
bird  songs,  but  a  perfect  swarm  of  notes  pouring  out 
like  bees  from  a  hive  and  resembling  each  other 
nearly  as  closely,  and  only  ceasing  as  the  bird  nears 
the  earth  again.  We  have  many  more  melodious 
songsters  ;  the  bobolink  in  the  meadows,  for  instance; 
the  vesper  sparrow  in  the  pastures,  the  purple  finch 
in  the  groves,  the  winter  wren,  or  any  of  the  thrushes 
in  the  woods,  or  the  wood- wagtail,  whose  air  song  is 
of  a  similar  character  to  that  of  the  skylark's,  and  is 


184  AX   OCTOBER  ABROAD. 

even  more  rapid  and  ringing,  and  is  delivered  in 
nearly  the  same  manner ;  but  our  birds  all  stop  when 
the  skylark  has  only  just  begun.  Away  he  goes  on 
quivering  wing,  inflating  his  throat  fuller  and  fuller, 
mounting  and  mounting,  and  turning  to  all  points  of 
the  compass  as  if  to  embrace  the  whole  landscape  in 
his  song,  the  notes  still  raining  upon  you  as  distinct 
as  ever,  after  you  have  left  him  far  behind.  You  feel 
that  you  need  be  in  no  hurry  to  observe  the  song  lest 
the  bird  finish,  you  walk  along,  your  mind  reverts 
to  other  things,  you  examine  the  grass  and  weeds,  or 
search  for  a  curious  stone,  still  there  goes  the  bird ; 
you  sit  down  and  study  the  landscape,  or  send  your 
thoughts  out  toward  France  or  Spain,  or  across  the 
sea  to  your  own  laud,  and  yet  when  you  get  them 
back,  there  is  that  song  above  you  almost  as  unceas- 
ing as  the  light  of  a  star.  This  strain  indeed  suggests 
some  rare  pyrotechnic  display,  musical  sounds  being 
substituted  for  the  many-colored  sparks  and  lights. 
And  yet  I  will  add  what  perhaps  the  best  readers  do 
not  need  to  be  told,  that  neither  the  lark  song,  nor  any 
other  bird  song  in  the  open  air  and  under  the  sky,  is 
as  noticeable  a  feature  as  my  description  of  it  might 
imply,  or  as  the  poets  would  have  us  believe  ;  and 
that  most  persons,  not  especially  interested  in  birds 
or  their  notes,  and  intent  upon  the  general  beauty  of 
the  landscape,  would  probably  pass  it  by  unremarked. 
I  suspect  that  it  is  a  little  higher  flight  than  the 
facts  will  bear  out  when  the  writers  make  the  birds 
go  out  of  sight  into  the  sky.  I  could  easily  follow 


MELLOW  ENGLAND.  185 

them  on  this  occasion,  though  if  I  took  my  eye  away 
for  a  moment  it  was  very  difficult  to  get  it  back  again. 
I  had  to  search  for  them  as  the  astronomer  searches 
for  a  star.  It  may  be  that  in  the  spring,  when  the 
atmosphere  is  less  clear,  and  the  heart  of  the  bird  full 
of  a  more  mad  and  reckless  love,  that  the  climax  is 
not  reached  until  the  eye  loses  sight  of  the  singer. 

Several  attempts  have  been  made  to  introduce  the 
lark  into  this  country,  but  for  some  reason  or  other 
the  experiment  has  never  succeeded.  The  birds  have 
been  liberated  in  Virginia  and  on  Long  Island,  but  do 
not  seem  to  have  ever  been  heard  of  afterwards.  I 
see  no  reason  why  they  should  not  thrive  anywhere 
along  our  Atlantic  sea-board,  and  I  think  the  question 
of  introducing  them  worthy  of  more  thorough  and 
serious  attention  than  has  yet  been  given  it,  for  the 
lark  is  really  an  institution,  and  as  he  sings  long  after 
the  other  birds  are  silent,  —  as  if  he  had  perpetual 
spring  in  his  heart,  —  he  would  be  a  great  acquisition 
to  our  fields  and  meadows.  It  may  be  that  he  can- 
not stand  the  extremes  of  our  climate,  though  the 
English  sparrow  thrives  well  enough.  The  Smith- 
sonian Institute  has  received  specimens  of  the  sky- 
lark from  Alaska  where,  no  doubt,  they  find  a  climate 
more  like  the  English. 

They  have  another  prominent  singer  in  England, 
namely  the  robin,  —  the  original  robin  redbreast,  — 
a  slight,  quick,  active  bird  with  an  orange  front  and 
an  olive  back,  and  a  bright  musical  warble  that  I 
caught  by  every  garden,  lane,  and  hedge-row.  It 


186  AN   OCTOBER    ABROAD. 

suggests    our   bluebird,  and   has  similar  habits  and 
manners,  though  it  is  a  much  better  musician. 

The  European  bird  that  corresponds  to  our  robin 
is  the  blackbird  of  which  Tennyson  sings :  — 

"  O  Blackbird,  sing  me  something  well  ; 
While  all  the  neighbors  shoot  thee  round 
I  keep  smooth  plats  of  fruitful  ground 
Where  thou  may'st  warble,  eat,  and  dwell." 

It  quite  startled  me  to  see  such  a  resemblance,  to 
see,  indeed,  a  black  robin.  In  size,  form,  flight,  man- 
ners, note,  call,  there  is  hardly  an  appreciable  differ- 
ence. The  bird  starts  up  with  the  same  flirt  of  the 
wings,  and  calls  out  in  the  same  jocund,  salutatory 
way,  as  he  hastens  off.  The  nest  of  coarse  mortar 
in  the  fork  of  a  tree,  or  in  an  out-building,  or  in  the 
side  of  a  wall,  is  also  the  same. 

The  bird  I  wished  most  to  hear,  namely,  the  night- 
ingale, had  already  departed  on  its  southern  journey. 
I  saw  one  in  the  Zoological  Gardens  in  London,  and 
took  a  good  look  at  him.  He  struck  me  as  bearing 
a  close  resemblance  to  our  hermit- thrush,. with  some- 
thing in  his  manners  that  suggested  the  water-thrush 
also.  Carlyle  said  he  first  recognized  its  song  from 
the  description  of  it  in  "  Wilhelm  Meister,"  and  that 
it  was  a  "  sudden  burst,"  which  is  like  the  song  of  our 
water-thrush. 

I  have  little  doubt  our  songsters  excel  in  melody, 
while  the  European  birds  excel  in  profuseness  and 
volubility.  I  heard  many  bright,  animated  notes, 
and  many  harsh  ones,  but  few  that  were  melodious. 


MELLOW    ENGLAND.  187 

This  fact  did  not  harmonize  with  the  general  drift  of 
the  rest  of  my  observations,  for  one  of  the  first  things 
that  strikes  an  American  in  Europe  is  the  mellow- 
ness and  rich  tone  of  things.  The  European  is 
softer  voiced  than  the  American  and  milder  mannered, 
but  the  bird  voices  seem  an  exception  to  this  rule. 


While  in  London  I  had  much  pleasure  in  strolling 
through  the  great  parks,  Hyde  Park,  Regent's  Park, 
St.  James  Park,  Victoria  Park,  etc.,  and  in  making 
Sunday  excursions  to  Richmond  Park  or  Hampden 
Court  Parks  or  the  great  parks  at  Windsor  Castle. 
The  magnitude  of  all  these  parks  was  something  I 
was  entirely  unprepared  for,  and  their  freedom  also  ; 
one  could  roam  where  he  pleased.  Not  once  did  I 
see  a  sign-board,  "  Keep  off  the  grass,"  or  go  here  or 
go  there.  There  was  grass  enough,  and  one  could 
launch  out  in  every  direction  without,  fear  of  tres- 
passing on  forbidden  ground.  One  gets  used,  at 
least  I  do^  to  such  petty  parks  at  home,  and  walks 
amid  them  so  cautiously  and  circumspectly,  every 
shrub  and  tree  and  grass  plat  saying  "hands  off," 
that  it  is  a  new  sensation  to  enter  a  city  pleasure 
ground  like  Hyde  Park  —  a  vast  natural  landscape, 
nearly  two  miles  long  and  a  mile  wide,  with  broad, 
rolling  plains,  with  herds  of  sheep  grazing,  and  for- 
ests and  lakes,  and  all  as  free  as  the  air.  We  have 
some  quite  sizable  parks  and  reservations  in  Wash- 
ington, and  the  citizen  has  the  right  of  way  over 


188  AN   OCTOBER   ABROAD. 

their  tortuous  gravel  walks,  but  he  puts  his  foot  upon 
the  grass  at  the  risk  of  being  insolently  hailed  by  the 
local  police.  I  have  even  been  called  to  order  for  re- 
clining upon  a  seat  under  a  tree  in  the  Smithsonian 
grounds.  I  must  sit  upright  as  in  church.  But  in 
Hyde  Park  or  Regent's  Park  I  could  not  only  walk 
upon  the  grass,  but  lie  upon  it,  or  roll  upon  it,  or  play 
"  one  catch  all "  with  children,  boys,  dogs,  or  sheep 
upon  it ;  and  I  took  my  revenge  for  once  for  being 
so  long  confined  to  gravel  walks,  and  gave  the  grass 
an  opportunity  to  grow  under  my  foot  whenever  I  en- 
tered one  of  these  parks. 

This  free  and  easy  rural  character  of  the  London 
parks  is  quite  in  keeping  with  the  tone  and  atmos- 
phere of  the  great  metropolis  itself,  which  in  so  many 
respects  has  a  country  homeliness  and  sincerity,  and 
shows  the  essentially  bucolic  taste  of  the  people  ;  con- 
trasting in  this  respect  with  the  parks  and  gardens 
of  Paris,  which  show  as  unmistakably  the  citizen 
and  the  taste  for  art  and  the  beauty  of  design  and 
ornamentation.  Hyde  Park  seems  to  me  the  perfec- 
tion of  a  city  pleasure  ground  of  this  kind,  because  it 
is  so  free  and  so  thoroughly  a  piece  of  the  country, 
and  so  exempt  from  any  petty  artistic  displays. 

In  walking  over  Richmond  Park  I  found  I  had 
quite  a  day's  work  before  me,  as  it  was  like  traversing 
a  township  ;  while  the  great  park  at  Windsor  Castle, 
being  upwards  of  fifty  miles  around,  might  well  make 
the  boldest  pedestrian  hesitate.  My  first  excursion 
was  to  Hampden  Court,  an  old  royal  residence,  where 


MELLOW  ENGLAND.  189 

I  spent  a  delicious  October  day  wandering  through 
Bushy  Park  and  looking  with  covetous,  though  ad- 
miring eyes  upon  the  vast  herds  of  deer  that  dotted 
the  plains  or  gave  way  before  me  as  I  entered  the 
woods.  There  seemed  literally  to  be  many  thou- 
sands of  these  beautiful  animals  in  this  park,  and  the 
loud,  hankering  sounds  of  the  bucks,  as  they  pursued 
or  circled  around  the  does,  was  a  new  sound  to  my 
ears.  The  rabbits  and  pheasants  also  were  objects  of 
the  liveliest  interest  to  me,  and  I  found  that  after  all 
a  good  shot  at  them  with  the  eye,  especially  when  I 
could  credit  myself  with  alertness  or  stealthiuess,  was 
satisfaction  enough. 

I  thought  it  worthy  of  note  that  though  these  great 
parks  in  and  about  London  were  so  free  and  appar- 
ently without  any  police  regulations  whatever,  yet  I 
never  saw  prowling  about  them  any  of  those  vicious, 
ruffianly  looking  characters  that  generally  infest  the 
neighborhood  of  our  great  cities,  especially  of  a  Sun- 
day. There  were  troops  of  boys,  but  they  were  as- 
tonishingly quiet  and  innoxious,  very  unlike  American 
boys,  white  or  black,  a  band  of  whom  making  excur- 
sions into  the  country  are  always  a  band  of  outlaws. 
Ruffianism  with  us  is  no  doubt  much  more  brazen  and 
pronounced,  not  merely  because  the  law  is  lax,  but 
because  such  is  the  genius  of  the  people. 


190  AN   OCTOBER   ABROAD. 


ENGLISH  CHARACTERISTICS. 

ENGLAND  is  a  mellow  country,  and  the  English 
people  are  a  mellow  people.  They  have  hung  on 
the  tree  of  nations  a  long  time,  and  will,  no  doubt, 
hang  as  much  longer  ;  for  windfalls,  I  reckon,  are  not 
the  order  in  this  island.  We  are  pitched  several  de- 
grees higher  in  this  country.  By  contrast,  things  here 
are  loud,  sharp,  and  garish.  Our  geography  is  loud; 
the  manners  of  the  people  are  loud ;  our  climate  is 
loud,  very  loud,  so  dry  and  sharp,  and  full  of  violent 
changes  and  contrasts  ;  and  our  goings-out  and  com- 
ings-in  as  a  nation  are  anything  but  silent.  Do  we 
not  occasionally  give  the  door  an  extra  slam,  just  for 
effect? 

In  England,  everything  is  on  a  lower  key,  slower, 
steadier,  gentler.  Life  is,  no  doubt,  as  full,  or  fuller, 
in  its  material  forms  and  measures,  but  less  violent 
and  aggressive.  The  buffers  the  English  have  be- 
tween their  cars  to  break  the  shock,  are  typical  of 
much  one  sees  there. 

All  sounds  are  softer  in  England ;  the  surface  of 
things  is  less  hard.  The  eye  of  day  and  the  face  of 
Nature  are  less  bright.  Everything  has  a  mellow, 


ENGLISH  CHARACTERISTICS.  191 

subdued  cast.  There  is  no  abruptness  in  the  land- 
scape, no  sharp  and  violent  contrasts,  no  brilliant  and 
striking  tints  in  the  foliage.  A  soft,  pale  yellow  is 
all  one  sees  in  the  way  of  tints  along  the  borders  of 
the  autumn  woods.  English  apples  (very  small  and 
inferior,  by  the  way)  are  not  so  highly  colored  as 
ours.  The  blackberries,  just  ripening  in  October,  are 
less  pungent  and  acid ;  and  the  garden  vegetables, 
such  as  cabbage,  celery,  cauliflower,  beet,  and  other 
root  crops,  are  less  rank  and  fibrous ;  and  I  am  very 
sure  that  the  meats  also  are  tenderer  and  sweeter. 
There  can  be  no  doubt  about  the  superiority  of  mut- 
ton ;  and  the  tender  and  succulent  grass,  and  the  moist, 
and  agreeable  climate,  must  tell  upou  the  beef  also. 

English  coal  is  all  soft  coal,  and  the  stone  is  soft 
stone.  The  foundations  of  the  hills  are  chalk  in- 
stead of  granite.  The  stone  with  which  most  of  the 
old  churches  and  cathedrals  are  built  would  not  en? 
dure  in  our  climate  half  a  century ;  but  in  Britain  the 
tooth  of  Time  is  much  blunter,  and  the  hunger  of  the 
old  man  less  ravenous,  and  the  ancient  architecture 
stands  half  a  millennium,  or  until  it  is  slowly  worn 
away  by  the  gentle  attrition  of  the  wind  and  rain. 

At  Chester,  the  old  Roman  wall  that  surrounds  the 
town,  built  in  the  first  century  and  repaired  in  the 
ninth,  is  still  standing  without  a  break  or  a  swerve, 
though  in  some  places  the  outer  face  of  the  wall  is 
worn  through.  The  cathedral,  and  St.  John's  church 
in  the  same  town,  present  to  the  beholder  outlines  as 
jagged  and  broken  as  rocks  and  cliffs ;  and  yet  it  is 


192  AN   OCTOBER   ABROAD. 

only  chip  by  chip,  or  grain  by  grain,  that  ruin  ap- 
proaches. The  timber  also  lasts  an  incredibly  long 
time.  Beneath  one  of  the  arched  ways,  in  the  Ches- 
ter wall  above  referred  to,  I  saw  timbers  that  must 
have  been  in  place  five  or  six  hundred  years.  The 
beams  in  the  old  houses,  also  fully  exposed  to  the 
weather,  seem  incapable  of  decay  ;  those  dating  from 
Shakespeare's  time  being  apparently  as  firm  as  ever. 

I  noticed  that  the  characteristic  aspect  of  the  clouds 
in  England  was  different  from  ours  —  soft,  fleecy, 
vapory,  indistinguishable  —  never  the  firm,  compact, 
sharply-defined,  deeply-dyed  masses  and  fragments, 
so  common  in  our  own  sky.  It  rains  easily  but 
slowly.  The  average  rain-fall  of  London  is  less  than 
that  of  New  York,  and  yet  it  doubtless  rains  ten  days 
in  the  former  to  one  in  the  latter.  Storms  accompa- 
nied with  thunder  are  rare ;  while  the  crashing, 
wrenching,  explosive  thunder-gusts  so  common  with 
us,  deluging  the  earth  and  convulsing  the  heavens, 
are  seldom  known. 

In  keeping  with  this  elemental  control  and  moder- 
ation, I  found  the  character  and  manners  of  the  peo- 
ple gentler  and  sweeter  than  I  had  been  led  to 
believe  they  were.  No  loudness,  brazenness,  imper- 
tinence; no  oaths,  no  swaggering,  no  leering  at 
women,  no  irreverence,  no  flippancy,  no  bullying,  no 
insolence  of  porters,  or  clerks,  or  conductors,  no  im- 
portunity of  boot-blacks  or  newsboys,  no  omnivorous- 
ness  of  hackmen  —  at  least,  comparatively  none  —  all 
of  which  an  American  is  apt  to  notice  and  I  hope 


ENGLISH   CHAKACTERISTICS.  193 

appreciate.  In  London,  the  boot-black  salutes  you 
with  a  respectful  bow,  and  touches  his  cap,  and  would 
no  more  think  of  pursuing  you  or  answering  your 
refusal  than  he  would  of  jumping  into  the  Thames. 
The  same  is  true  of  the  newsboys.  If  they  were  to 
scream  and  bellow  in  London,  as  they  do  in  New 
York  or  Washington,  they  would  be  suppressed  by 
the  police,  as  they  ought  to  be.  The  vender  of 
papers  stands  at  the  corner  of  the  street,  with  his 
goods  in  his  arms,  and  a  large  placard  spread  out  at 
his  feet,  giving  in  big  letters  the  principal  news-head- 
ings. 

Street-cries  of  all  kinds  are  less  noticeable,  less 
aggressive,  than  in  this  country,  and  the  manners  of 
the  shopmen  make  you  feel  you  are  conferring  a  ben- 
efit instead  of  receiving  one.  Even  their  locomotives 
are  less  noisy  than  ours,  having  a  shrill,  infantile 
whistle  that  contrasts  strongly  with  the  loud  demoniac 
yell  that  makes  a  residence  near  a  railway  or  depot, 
in  this  country,  so  unbearable.  The  trains  themselves 
move  with  wonderful  smoothness  and  celerity,  mak- 
ing a  mere  fraction  of  the  racket  made  by  our  flying 
palaces  as  they  go  swaying  and  jolting  over  our  hasty, 
ill-ballasted  roads. 

It  is  characteristic  of  the  English  prudence  and 
plain  dealing,  that  they  put  so  little  on  the  cars  and 
so  much  on  the  road,  while  the  reverse  process  is 
equally  characteristic  of  American  enterprise.  Our 
railway  system,  no  doubt,  has  certain  advantages  or 
rather  conveniences  over  the  English,  but,  for  my  part 
13 


194  AN  OCTOBER   ABROAD. 

I  had  rather  ride  smoothly,  swiftly,  and  safely  in  a 
luggage-van,  than  be  jerked  and  jolted  to  destruction 
in  the  velvet  and  veneering  of  our  palace  cars.  Uphol- 
ster the  road  first,  and  let  us  ride  on  bare  boards,  until 
a  cushion  can  be  afforded  ;  not  till  after  the  bridges  are 
of  granite  and  iron,  and  the  rails  of  steel,  do  we  want 
this  more  than  aristocratic  splendor  and  luxury  of 
palace  and  drawing-room  cars.  To  me  there  is  no 
more  marked  sign  of  the  essential  vulgarity  of  the 
national  manners  than  these  princely  cars  and  beg- 
garly, clap-trap  roads.  It  is  like  a  man  wearing  a 
ruffled  and  jeweled  shirt-front,  but  too  poor  to  afford 
a  shirt  itself. 

I  have  said  the  English  are  a  sweet  and  mellow 
people.  There  is,  indeed,  a  charm  about  these  an- 
cestral races  that  goes  to  the  heart.  And  herein  was 
one  of  the  profoundest  surprises  of  my  visit,  namely, 
that,  in  coming  from  the  New  World  to  the  Old,  from 
a  people  the  most  recently  out  of  the  woods  of  any,  to 
one  of  the  ripest  and  venerablest  of  the  European  na- 
tionalities, I  should  find  a  race  more  simple,  youthful, 
and  less  sophisticated  than  the  one  I  had  left  behind 
me.  Yet  this  was  my  impression.  We  have  lost 
immensely  in  some  things,  and  what  we  have  gained 
is  not  yet  so  obvious  or  so  definable.  We  have  lost 
in  reverence,  in  homeliness,  in  heart  and  conscience  — 
in  virtue,  using  the  word  in  its  proper  sense.  To 
some  the  difference  which  I  note  may  appear  a  differ- 
ence in  favor  of  the  greater  'cuteness,  wideawakeness, 
and  enterprise  of  the  American,  but  is  simply  a  differ- 


ENGLISH   CHARACTERISTICS.  195 

ence  expressive  of  our  greater  forwardness.  "We 
are  a  forward  people,  and  the  god  we  worship  is 
Smartness.  In  one  of  the  worst  tendencies  of  the  age, 
namely,  an  impudent,  superficial,  journalistic  intel- 
lectuality and  glibuess,  America,  in  her  polite  and 
literary  circles,  no  doubt,  leads  all  other  nations. 
English  books  and  newspapers  show  more  homely 
veracity,  more  singleness  of  purpose,  in  short,  more 
character  than  ours.  The  great  charm  of  such  a  man 
as  Darwin,  for  instance,  is  his  simple  manliness  and 
transparent  good  faith,  and  the  absence  in  him  of  that 
finical,  self-complacent  smartness  which  is  the  bane 
of  our  literature. 

The  poet  Clough  thought  the  New  England  man 
more  simple  than  the  man  of  Old  England.  Haw- 
thorne, on  the  other  hand,  seemed  reluctant  to  admit 
that  the  English  were  a  "  franker  and  simpler  people, 
from  peer  to  peasant,"  than  we  are ;  and  that  they 
had  not  yet  wandered  so  far  from  that  "  healthful 
and  primitive  simplicity  in  which  man  was  created" 
as  have  their  descendants  in  America.  My  own  im- 
pression accords  with  Hawthorne's.  We  are  a  more 
alert  and  curious  people,  but  not  so  simple,  —  not  so 
easily  angered,  nor  so  easily  amused.  We  have  par- 
taken more  largely  of  the  fruit  of  the  forbidden  tree. 
The  English  have  more  of  the  stay-to-home  virtues, 
which,  on  the  other  hand,  they  no  doubt  pay  pretty 
well  for  by  their  more  insular  tendencies. 

The  youths  and  maidens  seemed  more  simple,  with 
their  softer  and  less  intellectual  faces.  When  I  re- 


196  AN   OCTOBER   ABROAD. 

turned  from  Paris  the  only  person  in  the  second  class 
compartments  of  the  car  with  me,  for  a  long  distance, 
was  an  English  youth  eighteen  or  twenty  years  old, 
returning  home  to  London  after  an  absence  of  nearly 
a  year,  which  he  had  spent  as  waiter  in  a  Parisian 
hotel.  He  was  born  in  London  and  had  spent  nearly 
his  whole  life  there,  where  his  mother,  a  widow,  then 
lived.  He  talked  very  freely  with  me,  and  told  me 
his  troubles,  and  plans,  and  hopes,  as  if  we  had  long 
known  each  other.  What  especially  struck  me  in  the 
youth  was  a  kind  of  sweetness  and  innocence  —  per- 
haps what  some  would  call  "  greenness  "  —  that  at 
home  I  had  associated  only  with  country  boys  and 
not  even  with  them  latterly.  The  smartness  and 
knowingness  and  a  certain  hardness  or  keenness  of 
our  city  youths,  —  there  was  no  trace  of  it  at  all  in 
this  young  Cockney.  But  he  liked  American  travel- 
ers better  than  those  from  his  own  country.  They 
were  more  friendly  and  communicative — were  not 
so  afraid  to  speak  to  "  a  fellow,"  and  at  the  hotel 
were  more  easily  pleased. 

The  American  is  certainly  not  the  grumbler  the 
Englishman  is  ;  he  is  more  cosmopolitan  and  concil- 
iatory. The  Englishman  will  not  adapt  himself  to 
his  surroundings  ;  he  is  not  the  least  bit  an  imitative 
animal ;  he  will  be  nothing  but  an  Englishman,  and 
is  out  of  place  —  an  anomaly  —  in  any  country  but 
his  own.  To  understand  him,  you  must  see  him  at 
home  in  the  British  island,  where  he  grew,  where  he 
belongs,  where  he  has  expressed  himself  and  justified 


ENGLISH    CHARACTERISTICS.  197 

himself,  and  his  interior,  unconscious  characteristics 
are  revealed.  There  he  is  quite  a  different  creature 
from  what  he  is  abroad.  There  he  is  "  sweet,"  but 
he  sours  the  moment  he  steps  off  the  island.  In  this 
country  he  is  too  generally  arrogant,  fault-finding,  and 
supercilious.  The  very  traits  of  loudness,  sharpness, 
and  unleavenedness  which  I  complain  of  in  our  na- 
tional manners,  he  very  frequently  exemplifies  in  an 
exaggerated  form. 

The  Scotch  or  German  element  no  doubt  fuses 
and  mixes  with  ours  much  more  readily  than  the 
purely  British. 

The  traveler  feels  the  past  in  England  as  of  course 
he  cannot  feel  it  here  ;  and,  along  with  impressions 
of  the  present,  one  gets  the  flavor  and  influence,  of 
earlier,  simpler  times,  which,  no  doubt,  is  a  potent 
charm,  and  one  source  of  the  "  rose-color  "  which 
some  readers  have  found  in  my  sketches,  as  the  ab- 
sence of  it  is  one  cause  of  the  raw,  acrid,  unlovely 
character  of  much  there  is  in  this  country.  If  the 
English  are  the  old  wine,  we  are  the  new.  We  are 
not  yet  thoroughly  leavened  as  a  people,  nor  have 
we  more  than  begun  to  transmute  and  humanize  our 
surroundings ;  and,  as  the  digestive  and  assimila- 
tive powers  of  the  American  are  clearly  less  than 
those  of  the  Englishman,  to  say  nothing  of  our 
harsher,  more  violent  climate,  I  have  no  idea  that 
ours  can  ever  become  the  mellow  land  that  Brit- 
ain is. 

As  for  the  charge  of  brutality  that  is  often  brought 


198  AN  OCTOBER   ABROAD. 

against  the  English,  and  which  is  so  successfully  de- 
picted by  Dickens  and  Thackery,  there  is,  doubtless, 
good  ground  for  it,  though  I  actually  saw  very  little 
of  it  during  five-weeks'  residence  in  London,  and  I 
poked  about  into  all  the  dens  and  corners  I  could 
find,  and  perambulated  the  streets  at  nearly  all  hours 
of  the  night  and  day.  Yet  I  am  persuaded  there  is 
a  kind  of  brutality  among  the  lower  orders  in  Eng- 
land that  does  not  exist  in  the  same  measure  in 
this  country  —  an  ignorant  animal  coarseness,  an  in- 
sensibility, which  gives  rise  to  wife-beating  and  kin- 
dred offenses.  But  the  brutality  of  ignorance  and 
stolidity  is  not  the  worst  form  of  the  evil.  It  is 
good  material  to  make  something  better  of.  It  is 
an  excess  and  not  a  perversion.  It  is  not  man  fallen, 
but  man  undeveloped.  Beware,  rather,  that  refined, 
subsidized  brutality  ;  that  thin,  depleted,  moral  con- 
sciousness ;  or  that  contemptuous,  cankerous,  euphe- 
mistic brutality,  of  which,  I  believe,  we  can  show 
vastly  more  samples  than  Great  Britain.  Indeed,  I 
believe,  for  the  most  part,  that  the  brutality  of  the 
English  people  is  only  the  excess  and  plethora  of 
that  healthful,  muscular  robustness  and  full-blooded- 
ness  for  which  the  nation  has  always  been  famous,  and 
which  it  should  prize  beyond  almost  anything  else. 
But  for  our  brutality,  our  recklessness  of  life  and 
property,  the  brazen  ruffianism  in  our  great  cities, 
the  hellish  greed  and  robbery  and  plunder  in  high 
places,  I  should  have  to  look  a  long  time  to  find  so 
plausible  an  excuse. 


ENGLISH   CHARACTERISTICS.  199 

[But  I  notice  with  pleasure  that  English  travelers 
are  beginning  to  find  more  to  admire  than  to  con- 
demn in  this  country,  and  that  they  accredit  us  with 
some  virtues  they  do  not  find  at  home  in  the  same 
measure.  They  are  charmed  with  the  independence, 
the  self-respect,  the  good-nature  and  the  obliging 
dispositions,  shown  by  the  mass  of  our  people  ;  while 
American  travelers  seem  to  be  more  and  more  ready 
to  acknowledge  the  charm  and  the  substantial  qual- 
ities of  the  mother  country.  It  is  a  good  omen. 
One  principal  source  of  the  pleasure  which  each 
takes  in  the  other  is  no  doubt  to  be  found  in  the  nov- 
elty of  the  impressions.  It  is  like  a  change  of  cook- 
ery. The  flavor  of  the  dish  is  fresh  and  uucloying 
to  each.  The  English  probably  tire  of  their  own  snob- 
bishness and  fluukeyism,  and  we  of  our  own  smart- 
ness and  puppyism.  After  the  American  has  got 
done  bragging  about  his  independence,  and  his  "free 
and  equal "  prerogatives,  he  begins  to  see  how  these 
things  run  into  impertinence  and  forwardness  ;  and 
the  Englishman,  in  visiting  us,  escapes  from  his  social 
bonds  and  prejudices,  to  see  for  a  moment  how  ab- 
surd they  all  are.] 

A  London  crowd  I  thought  the  most  normal  and 
unsophisticated  I  had  ever  seen,  with  the  least  ad- 
mixture of  rowdyism  and  ruffianism.  No  doubt  it  is 
there,  but  this  scum  is  not  upon  the  surface,  as  with 
us.  I  wTent  about  very  freely  in  the  hundred  and  one 
places  of  amusement  where  the  average  working 
classes  assemble,  with  their  wives  and  daughters  and 


200  AN   OCTOBER  ABROAD. 

sweethearts,  and  smoke  villainous  cigars,  and  drink 
ale  and  stout.  There  was  to  me  something  notably 
fresh  and  canny  about  them,  as  if  they  had  only  yes- 
terday ceased  to  be  shepherds  and  shepherdesses. 
They  certainly  were  less  developed,  in  certain  direc- 
tions, or  shall  I  say  depraved,  than  similar  crowds  in 
our  great  cities.  They  are  easily  pleased,  and  laugh 
at  the  simple  and  childlike,  but  there  is  little  that 
hints  of  an  impure  taste,  or  of  abnormal  appetites.  I 
often  smiled  at  the  tameness  and  simplicity  of  the 
amusements,  but  my  sense  of  fitness,  or  proportion, 
or  decency,  was  never  once  outraged.  They  always 
stop  short  of  a  certain  point  —  the  point  where  wit 
degenerates  into  mockery,  and  liberty  into  license : 
nature  is  never  put  to  shame,  and  will  commonly 
bear  much  more.  Especially  to  the  American  sense 
did  their  humorous  and  comic  strokes,  their  negro- 
minstrelsy,  and  attempts  at  Yankee  comedy,  seem  in 
.  in  a  minor  key.  There  was  not  enough  irreverence, 
and  slang,  and  coarse  ribaldry,  in  the  whole  evening's 
entertainment,  to  have  seasoned  one  line  of  some  of 
our  most  popular  comic  poetry.  But  the  music,  and 
the  gymnastic,  acrobatic,  and  other  feats,  were  of  a 
very  high  order.  And  I  will  say  here  that  the  char- 
acteristic flavor  of  the  humor  and  fun-making  of  the 
average  English  people,  as  it  impressed  my  sense,  is 
what  one  gets  in  Sterne  —  very  human  and  stomachic, 
and  entirely  free  from  the  contempt  and  supercilious- 
ness of  most  current  writers.  I  did  not  get  one  whiff 
of  Dickens  anywhere.  No  doubt,  it  is  there  in  some 


ENGLISH   CHARACTERISTICS.  201 

form  or  other,  but  it  is  not  patent,  or  even  apprecia- 
ble, to  the  sense  of  such  an  observer  as  I  am. 

I  was  not  less  pleased  by  the  simple  good-will  and 
bonhomie  that  pervaded  the  crowd.  There  is  in  all 
these  gatherings  an  indiscriminate  mingling  of  the 
sexes,  a  mingling  without  jar  or  noise  or  rudeness  of 
any  kind,  and  marked  by  a  mutual  respect  on  all  sides 
that  is  novel  and  refreshing.  Indeed,  so  uniform  is 
the  courtesy,  and  so  human  and  considerate  the  inter- 
est, that  I  was  often  at  a  loss  to  discriminate  the  wife 
or  the  sister  from  the  mistress  or  the  acquaintance  of 
the  hour,  and  had  many  times  to  check  my  American 
curiosity,  and  cold,  criticising  stare.  For  it  was  curi- 
ous to  see  young  men  and  women  from  the  lowest 
social  strata  meet  and  mingle  in  a  public  hall  with- 
out lewdness  or  badinage,  but  even  with  gentleness 
and  consideration.  The  truth  is,  however,  that  the 
class  of  women  known  as  victims  of  the  social  evil 
do  not  sink  within  many  degrees  as  low  in  Europe 
as  they  do  in  this  country,  either  in  their  own  opinion 
or  in  that  of  the  public ;  and  there  can  be  but  little 
doubt  that  gatherings  of  the  kind  referred  to,  if  per- 
mitted in  our  great  cities,  would  be  tenfold  more 
scandalous  and  disgraceful  than  they  are  in  London 
or  Paris.  There  is  something  so  reckless  and  des- 
perate in  the  career  of  man  or  woman  in  this  coun- 
try, when  they  begin  to  go  down,  that  the  only  feel- 
ing they  too  often  excite  is  one  of  loathsomeness  and 
disgust.  The  lowest  depth  must  be  reached,  and  it 
is  reached  quickly.  But,  in  London,  the  same  char- 


202  AN  OCTOBER   ABROAD. 

acters  seem  to  keep  a  sweet  side  from  corruption  to 
the  last,  and  you  will  see  good  manners  everywhere. 

We  boast  of  our  deference  to  women,  but,  if  the 
Old  World  made  her  a  tool,  we  are  fast  making  her 
a  toy  ;  and  the  latter  is  the  more  hopeless  condition. 
But  among  the  better  classes  in  England  I  am  con- 
vinced that  woman  is  regarded  more  as  a  sister  and 
an  equal  than  in  this  country,  and  is  less  subject  to 
insult  and  to  leering,  brutal  comment  there  than  here. 
We  are  her  slave  or  her  tyrant ;  so  seldom  her 
brother  and  friend.  I  thought  it  a  significant  fact 
that  I  found  no  place  of  amusement  set  apart  for  the 
men  ;  where  one  sex  went  the  other  went ;  what  was 
sauce  for  the  gander  was  sauce  for  the  goose ;  and  the 
spirit  that  prevailed  was  soft  and  human  accordingly. 
The  hotels  had  no  "  ladies'  entrance,"  but  all  passed 
in  and  out  the  same  door,  and  met  and  mingled  com- 
monly in  the  same  room,  and  the  place  was  as  much 
for  one  as  for  the  other.  It  was  no  more  a  mascu- 
line monopoly  than  it  was  a  feminine.  Indeed,  in 
the  country  towns  and  villages  the  character  of  the 
inns  is  unmistakably  given  by  woman ;  hence  the 
sweet,  domestic  atmosphere  that  pervades  and  fills 
them  is  balm  to  the  spirit.  Even  the  larger  hotels  of 
Liverpool  and  London  have  a  private,  cosy  home 
character  that  is  most  delightful.  On  entering  them, 
instead  of  finding  yourself  in  a  sort  of  public  thorough- 
fare or  political  caucus,  amid  crowds  of  men  talking, 
and  smoking,  and  spitting,  with  stalls  on  either  side, 
where  cigars  and  tobacco,  and  books  and  papers  are 


ENGLISH  CHARACTERISTICS.  203 

sold,  you  perceive  you  are  in  something  like  a  larger 
hall  of  a  private  house,  with  perhaps  a  parlor  and 
coffee-room  on  one  side,  and  the  office,  and  smoking- 
room,  and  stairway,  on  the  other.  You  may  leave 
your  coat  and  hat  on  the  rack  in  the  hall,  and  stand 
your  umbrella  there  also,  with  full  assurance  that  you 
will  find  them  there  when  you  want  them,  if  it  be  the 
next  morning  or  the  next  week.  Instead  of  that 
petty  tyrant  the  hotel-clerk,  a  young  woman  sits  in 
the  office  with  her  sewing  or  other  needlework,  and 
quietly  receives  you.  She  gives  you  your  number 
on  a  card,  rings  for  a  chambermaid  to  show  you  to 
your  room,  and  directs  your  luggage  to  be  sent  up  ; 
and  there  is  something  in  the  look  of  things,  and  the 
way  they  are  done,  that  goes  to  the  right  spot  at 
once. 

At  the  hotel  in  London  where  I  stopped,  the 
daughters  of  the  landlord,  three  fresh,  comely  young 
women,  did  the  duties  of  the  office ;  and  their  pres- 
ence, so  quiet  and  domestic,  gave  the  prevailing  hue 
and  tone  to  the  whole  house.  I  wonder  how  long  a 
young  woman  could  preserve  her  self-respect  and 
sensibility  in  such  a  position  in  New  York  or  Wash- 
ington ? 

The  English  regard  us  as  a  wonderfully  patient 
people,  and  there  can  be  no  doubt  but  we  put  up  with 
abuses  unknown  elsewhere.  If  we  have  no  big 
tyrant,  we  have  ten  thousand  little  ones,  who  tread 
upon  our  toes  at  every  turn.  The  tyranny  of  cor- 
porations and  of  public  servants  of  one  kind  and  an- 


204  AN   OCTOBER  ABROAD. 

other,  as  the  ticket-man,  the  railroad-conductor,  or 
even  of  the  country  stage-driver,  seem  to  be  features 
peculiar  to  American  democracy.  In  England,  the 
traveler  is  never  snubbed,  or  made  to  feel  that  it  is 
by  somebody's  sufferance  that  he  is  allowed  aboard 
or  to  pass  on  his  way. 

If  you  get  into  an  omnibus  or  a  railroad  or  train- 
way  carriage  in  London,  you  are  sure  of  a  seat.  Not 
another  person  can  get  aboard  after  the  seats  are  all 
full.  Or,  if  you  enter  a  public  hall,  you  know  you 
will  not  be  required  to  stand  up  unless  you  pay  the 
standing-up  price.  There  is  everywhere  that  system, 
and  order,  and  fair  dealing,  which  all  men  love.  The 
science  of  living  has  been  reduced  to  a  fine  point.  You 
pay  a  sixpence  and  get  a  sixpence  worth  of  whatever 
you  buy.  There  are  all  grades  and  prices,  and  the 
robbery  and  extortion  so  current  at  home  appear  to 
be  unknown. 

I  am  not  contending  for  the  superiority  of  every- 
thing English,  but  would  not  disguise  from  myself  or 
my  readers  the  fact  of  the  greater  humanity  and  con- 
sideration that  prevail  in  the  mother  country.  Things 
here  are  yet  in  the  green,  but  I  trust  there  is  no  good 
reason  to  doubt  that  our  fruit  will  mellow  and  ripen 
in  time  like  the  rest. 


A   GLIMPSE   OF   FRANCE.  205 


A  GLIMPSE  OF  FRANCE. 

Ix  coming  over  to  France,  I  noticed  that  the 
chalk-hills,  which  were  stopped  so  abruptly  by  the  sea 
on  the  British  side  of  the  Channel,  began  again  on 
the  French  side,  only  they  had  lost  their  smooth,  pas- 
toral character,  and  were  more  broken  and  rocky,  and 
that  they  continued  all  the  way  to  Paris,  walling  in 
the  Seine,  and  giving  the  prevailing  tone  and  hue  to 
the  country,  —  scrape  away  the  green  and  brown 
epidermis  of  the  hills  anywhere,  and  out  shine  their 
white  frame-work,  —  and  that  Paris  itself  was  built 
of  stone  evidently  quarried  from  this  formation  —  a 
light,  cream-colored  stone,  so  soft  that  rifle-bullets 
bury  themselves  in  it  nearly  their  own  depth,  thus 
pitting  some  of  the  more  exposed  fronts  during  the 
recent  strife  in  a  very  noticeable  manner,  and  which, 
in  building,  is  put  up  in  the  rough,  all  the  carving, 
sculpturing,  and  finishing  being  done  after  the  blocks 
are  in  position  in  the  wall. 

Disregarding  the  counsel  of  friends,  I  braved  the 
Channel  at  one  of  its  wider  points,  taking  the  vixen 
by  the  waist  instead  of  by  the  neck,  and  found  her  as 
placid  as  a  lake,  as  I  did  also  on  my  return  a  week 
later. 


206  AX   OCTOBER   ABROAD. 

It  was  a  bright  October  morning  as  we  steamed 
into  the  little  harbor  at  Dieppe,  and  the  first  scene 
that  met  my  eye  was,  I  suppose,  a  characteristic  one 
—  four  or  five  old  men  and  women  towing  a  vessel 
into  a  dock.  They  bent  beneath  the  rope  that  passed 
from  shoulder  to  shoulder,  and  tugged  away  dog- 
gedly at  it,  the  women  apparently  more  than  able  to 
do  their  part.  There  is  no  equalizer  of  the  sexes 
like  poverty  and  misery,  and  then  it  very  often  hap- 
pens that  the  gray  mare  proves  the  better  horse. 
Throughout  the  agricultural  regions,  as  we  passed 
along,  the  men  apparently  all  wore  petticoats;  at 
least,  the  petticoats  were  the  most  active  and  prom- 
inent in  the  field  occupations.  Their  wearers  were 
digging  potatoes,  pulling  beets,  following  the  harrow 
(in  one  instance  a  thorn-bush  drawn  by  a  cow),  and 
stirring  the  wet,  new-mown  grass.  I  believe  the 
pantaloons  were  doing  the  mowing.  But  I  looked  in 
vain  for  any  Maud  Miillers  in  the  meadows,  and  have 
concluded  that  these  can  only  be  found  in  New  Eng- 
land hay-fields  !  And  herein  is  one  of  the  first  sur- 
prises that  awaits  one  on  visiting  the  Old  World 
countries,  the  absence  of  graceful,  girlish  figures,  and 
bright  girlish  faces,  among  the  peasantry  or  rural 
population.  In  France  I  certainly  expected  to  see 
female  beauty  everywhere,  but  did  not  get  one  gleam 
all  that  sunny  day  till  I  got  to  Paris.  Is  it  a  plant 
that  only  flourishes  in  cities  on  this  side  of  the 
Atlantic,  or  do  all  the  pretty  girls,  as  soon  as  they 
are  grown,  pack  their  trunks,  and  leave  for  the  gay 
metropolis  ? 


A   GLIMPSE   OF   FRANCE.  207 

At  Dieppe  I  first  saw  the  wooden  shoe,  and  heard 
its  dry,  senseless  clatter  upon  the  pavement.  How 
suggestive  of  the  cramped  and  inflexible  conditions 
with  which  human  nature  has  borne  so  long  in  these 
lands  ! 

A  small  paved  square  near  the  wharf  was  the  scene 
of  an  early  market,  and  afforded  my  first  glimpse  of 
the  neatness  and  good  taste  that  characterize  nearly 
everything  in  France.  Twenty  or  thirty  peasant- 
women,  coarse  and  masculine,  but  very  tidy,  with 
their  snow-white  caps  and  short  petticoats,  and  per- 
haps half  as  many  men,  were  chattering  and  chaffer- 
ing over  little  heaps  of  fresh  country  produce.  The 
onions  and  potatoes  and  cauliflowers,  etc.,  were  pret- 
tily arranged  on  the  clean  pavement,  or  on  white  linen 
cloths,  and  the  scene  was  altogether  animated  and 
agreeable. 

La  belle  France  is  the  woman's  country  clearly,  and 
it  seems  a  mistake  or  an  anomaly  that  woman  is  not 
at  the  top,  and  leading  in  all  departments,  compelling 
the  other  sex  to  play  second  fiddle,  as  she  so  fre- 
quently has  done  for  a  brief  time  in  isolated  cases  in 
the  past ;  not  that  the  man  is  effeminate,  but  that  the 
woman  seems  so  nearly  his  match  and  equal,  and 
even  so  often  proves  his  superior.  In  no  other  na- 
tion, during  times  of  popular  excitement  and  insur- 
rection or  revolution,  do  women  emerge  so  conspicu- 
ously, often  in  the  front  ranks,  the  most  furious  and 
ungovernable  of  any.  I  think  even  a  female  conscrip- 
tion might  be  advisable  in  the  present  condition  of 


208  AN   OCTOBER  ABROAD. 

France,  if  I  may  judge  of  her  soldiers  from  the  speci- 
mens I  saw.  Small,  spiritless,  inferior-looking  men 
all  of  them.  They  were  like  Number  Three  mack- 
erel or  the  last  run  of  shad,  as  doubtless  they  were  — 
the  last  pickings  and  resiftings  of  the  population. 

I  don't  know  how  far  it  may  be  a  national  custom, 
but  I  observed  that  the  women  of  the  humbler  classes, 
in  meeting  or  parting  with  friends  at  the  stations, 
saluted  each  other  on-  both  cheeks,  never  upon  the 
mouth,  as  our  dear  creatures  do,  and  I  commended 
their  good  taste,  though  I  certainly  approve  the 
American  custom  too. 

Among  the  male  population  I  was  struck  with  the 
frequent  recurrence  of  the  Louis  Napoleon  type  of 
face.  "  Has  this  man,"  I  said,  "  succeeded  in  impress- 
ing himself  even  upon  the  physiognomy  of  the  peo- 
ple ?  Has  he  taken  such  a  hold  of  their  imagina- 
tions that  they  have  grown  to  look  like  him  ?  "  The 
guard  that  took  our  train  down  to  Paris  might  easily 
play  the  double  to  the  ex-emperor ;  and  many  times 
in  Paris  and  among  different  classes  I  saw  the  same 
countenance. 

Coming  from  England,  the  traveling  seems  very 
slow  in  this  part  of  France,  taking  eight  or  nine 
hours  to  go  from  Dieppe  to  Paris,  with  an  hour's 
delay  at  Rouen.  The  valley  of  the  Seine,  which  the 
road  follows  or  skirts  more  than  half  the  way,  is 
very  winding,  with  immense  flats  or  plains  shut  in  by 
a  wall  of  steep,  uniform  hills,  and,  in  the  progress  of 
the  journey,  is  from  time  to  time  laid  open  to  the 


A   GLIMPSE   OF   FRANCE.  209 

traveler  in  a  way  that  is  full  of  novelty  and  surprise. 
The  clay  was  bright  and  lovely,  and  I  found  my  eyes 
running  riot  the  same  as  they  had  done  during  my 
first  ride  on  British  soil.  The  contrast  between  the 
two  countries  is  quite  marked,  France  in  this  region 
being  much  more  broken  and  picturesque,  with  some 
waste  or  sterile  land,  a  thing  I  did  not  see  at  all  in 
England.  Had  I  awoke  from  a  long  sleep  just  before 
reaching  Paris,  I  should  have  guessed  I  was  riding 
through  Maryland,  and  would  soon  see  the  dome  of 
the  Capitol  at  Washington  rising  above  the  trees. 
So  much  wild  and  bushy,  or  barren  and  half-cultivated 
land,  almost  under  the  walls  of  the  French  capital, 
was  a  surprise. 

Then  there  are  few  or  none  of  those  immense 
home-parks  which  one  sees  in  England,  the  land  being 
mostly  held  by  a  great  number  of  small  proprietors, 
and  cultivated  in  strips  or  long,  narrow  parallelo- 
grams, making  the  landscape  look  like  many-colored 
patchwork.  Everywhere  along  the  Seine,  stretching 
over  the  flats,  or  tilted  up  against  the  sides  of  the 
hills,  in  some  places  seeming  almost  to  stand  on  end, 
were  these  acre  or  half-acre  rectangular  farms,  with- 
out any  dividing  lines  or  fences,  and  of  a  great  vari- 
ety of  shades  and  colors,  according  to  the  crop  and 
the  tillage. 

I  was  glad  to  see  my  old  friend,  the  beech-tree,  all 

along  the  route.     His  bole  wore  the  same  gray  and 

patched  appearance  it  does  at  home,  and,  no  doubt, 

Thoreau  would  have  found  his  instep  even  fairer,  for 

14 


210  AN   OCTOBER    ABROAD. 

the  beech  on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic  is  a  more  fluent 
and  graceful  tree  than  the  American  species,  resem- 
bling, in  its  branchings  and  general  form,  our  elm, 
though  never  developing  such  an  immense  green 
dome  as  our  elm  when  standing  alone,  and  I  saw  no 
European  tree  that  does.  The  European  elm  is  not 
unlike  our  beech  in  form  and  outline. 

Going  from  London  to  Paris  is,  in  some  respects, 
like  getting  out  of  the  chimney  on  to  the  house-top 
—  the  latter  city  is,  by  contrast,  so  light  and  airy, 
and  so  American  in  its  roominess.  I  had  come  to 
Paris  for  my  dessert  after  my  feast  of  London  joints, 
and  I  suspect  I  was  a  little  dainty  in  that  most  dainty 
of  cities.  In  fact,  I  had  become  quite  sated  with 
sight-seeing,  and  the  prospect  of  having  to  go  on  and 
"  do  "  the  rest  of  Europe  after  the  usual  manner 
of  tourists,  and  as  my  companions  did,  would  have 
been  quite  appalling.  Said  companions  steered  off 
like  a  pack  of  fox  hounds  in  full  blast.  The  game 
they  were  in  quest  of  lead  them  a  wild  chase,  up  the 
Rhine,  off  through  Germany  and  Italy,  taking  a  turn 
back  through  Switzerland,  giving  them  no  rest  and 
apparently  eluding  them  at  last.  I  had  felt  obliged 
to  cut  loose  from  them  at  the  outset,  my  capacity  to 
digest  kingdoms  and  empires  at  short  notice  being  far 
below  that  of  the  average  of  my  countrymen.  My 
interest  and  delight  had  been  too  intense  at  the  out- 
set ;  I  had  partaken  too  heartily  of  the  first  courses ; 
and  now,  where  other  travelers  begin  to  warm  to  the 
subject,  and  to  have  the  keenest  relish,  I  began  to 


A   GLIMPSE   OF   FRANCE.  211 

wish  the  whole  thing  well  through  with.  So  that 
Paris  was  no  paradise  to  one  American  at  least. 
Yet,  the  mere  change  of  air  and  sky,  and  the  escape 
from  that  sooty,  all -pervasive,  chimney-flue  smell  of 
London,  was  so  sudden  and  complete,  that  the  first 
hour  of  Paris  was  like  a  refreshing  bath,  and  gave 
rise  to  a  satisfaction  in  which  every  pore  of  the  skin 
participated.  My  room  at  the  hotel  was  a  gem  of 
neatness  and  order,  and  the  bed  a  marvel  of  art,  com- 
fort, and  ease,  three  feet  deep  at  least. 

Then  the  uniform  imperial  grace  and  eclat  of  the 
city  was  a  new  experience.  Here  was  the  city  of 
cities,  the  capital  of  taste  and  fashion,  the  pride  and 
flower  of  a  great  race  and  a  great  history,  the  city  of 
kings  and  emperors,  and  of  a  people  which,  after  all, 
loves  kings  and  emperors,  and  will  not  long,  I  fear, 
be  happy  without  them  —  a  gregarious,  urbane  peo- 
ple, a  people  of  genius  and  destiny,  whose  God  is  Art 
and  whose  devil  is  Communism.  London  has  long 
ago  outgrown  itself,  has  spread,  and  multiplied,  and 
accumulated,  without  a  corresponding  inward  expan- 
sion and  unification ;  but,  in  Paris,  they  have  pulled 
down  and  built  larger,  and  the  spirit  of  centralization 
has  had  full  play.  Hence,  the  French  capital  is  su- 
perb, but  soon  grows  monotonous.  See  one  street 
and  boulevard,  and  you  have  seen  it  all.  It  has  the 
unity  and  consecutiveness  of  a  thing  deliberately 
planned  and  built  to  order,  from  beginning  to  end. 
Its  stone  is  all  from  one  quarry,  and  its  designs  all 
the  work  of  one  architect.  London  has  infinite  va- 


212  AN  OCTOBER   ABROAD. 

riety,  and  quaintness,  and  picturesqueness,  and  is  of 
all  possible  shades  of  dinginess  and  weather-stains. 
It  shows  its  age,  shows  the  work  of  innumerable  gen- 
erations, and  is  more  an  aggregation,  a  conglomeration 
than  Paris  is.  Paris  shows  the  citizen,  and  is  mod- 
ern and  democratic  in  its  uniformity.  On  the  whole, 
I  liked  London  best,  because  I  am  so  much  of  a  coun- 
tryman, I  suppose,  and  affect  so  little  the  metropoli- 
tan spirit.  In  London  there  are  a  few  grand  things 
to  be  seen,  and  the  pulse  of  the  great  city  itself  is 
like  the  throb  of  the  ocean ;  but  in  Paris,  owing 
either  to  my  jaded  senses,  or  some  other  cause,  I  saw 
nothing  that  was  grand,  but  enough  that  was  beauti- 
ful and  pleasing.  The  more  pretentious  and  elabo- 
rate specimens  of  architecture,  like  the  palace  of  the 
Tuileries,  or  the  Palais  Royal,  are  truly  superb,  but 
they  as  truly  do  not  touch  that  deeper  chord  whose 
awakening  we  call  the  emotion  of  the  sublime. 

But  the  fitness  and  good  taste  everywhere  dis- 
played in  the  French  capital  may  well  offset  any  con- 
siderations of  this  kind,  and  cannot  fail  to  be  refresh- 
ing to  a  traveler  of  any  other  land  ;  in  the  dress  and 
manners  of  the  people,  in  the  shops,  and  bazaars,  and 
show-windows,  in  the  markets,  the  equipages,  the  fur- 
niture, the  hotels.  It  is  entirely  a  new  sensation  to 
an  American  to  look  into  a  Parisian  theatre,  and  see 
the  acting  and  hear  the  music.  The  chances  are 
that,  for  the  first  time  he  sees  the  interior  of  a  theatre 
that  does  not  have  a  hard,  business-like,  matter-of-fact 
air.  The  auditors  look  comfortable  and  cozy,  and 


A   GLIMPSE   OF   FRANCE.  213 

quite  at  home,  and  do  not,  shoulder  to  shoulder,  and 
in  solid  lines,  make  a  dead  set  at  the  play  and  the 
music.  The  theatre  has  warm  hangings,  warm  col- 
ors, cozy  boxes  and  stalls,  and  is  in  no  sense  the  pub- 
lic, away-from-home  place  we  are  so  familiar  with  in 
this  country.  Again,  one  might  know  it  was  Paris  by 
the  character  of  the  prints  and  pictures  in  the  shop- 
windows;  they  are  so  clever,  as  art,  one  becomes 
reprehensibly  indifferent  to  their  license.  Whatever 
sins  the  French  may  be  guilty  of,  they  never  sin 
against  art  and  good  taste  (except  when  in  the  frenzy 
of  revolution),  and,  if  Propriety  is  sometimes  obliged 
to  cry  out "  For  shame  !  "  in  the  French  capital,  she 
must  do  so  with  ill-concealed  admiration,  like  a  fond 
mother  chiding  with  word  and  gesture,  while  she  ap- 
proves with  tone  and  look.  It  is  a  foolish  charge, 
often  made,  that  the  French  make  vice  attractive ; 
they  make  it  provocative  of  laughter ;  the  spark  of 
wit  is  always  evolved,  and  what  is  a  better  antidote 
to  this  kind  of  poison  than  mirth. 

They  carry  their  wit  even  into  their  cuisine.  Every 
dish  set  before  you  at  the  table  is  a  picture,  and 
tickles  your  eye  before  it  does  your  palate.  When  I 
ordered  fried  eggs,  they  were  brought  on  a  snow- 
white  napkin,  which  was  artistically  folded  upon  a 
piece  of  ornamented  tissue-paper,  that  covered  a  china 
plate ;  if  I  asked  for  cold  ham,  it  came  in  flakes,  ar- 
rayed like  great  rose-leaves,  with  a  green  sprig  or 
two  of  parsley  dropped  upon  it,  and  surrounded  by  a 
border  of  calves-foot  jelly,  like  a  setting  of  crystals. 


214  AN   OCTOBER   ABKOAD. 

The  bread  revealed  new  qualities  in  the  wheat,  it  was 
so  sweet  and  nutty ;  and  the  fried  potatoes,  with 
which  jour  beef-steak  comes  snowed  under,  are  the 
very  flower  of  the  culinary  art,  and  I  believe  impossi- 
ble in  any  other  country. 

Even  the  ruins  are  in  excellent  taste,  and  are  by 
far  the  best-behaved  ruins  I  ever  saw  for  so  recent 
ones.  I  came  near  passing  some  of  the  most  noted 
during  my  first  walk  without  observing  them.  The 
main  walls  were  all  standing,  and  the  fronts  were  as 
imposing  as  ever.  No  litter  or  rubbish,  no  charred 
timbers  or  blackened  walls,  only  vacant  windows  and 
wrecked  interiors,  which  do  not  very  much  mar  the 
general  outside  effect. 

My  first  genuine  surprise  was  the  morning  after  my 
arrival,  which,  according  to  my  reckoning,  was  Sun- 
day ;  and  when  I  heard  the  usual  week-day  sounds, 
and,  sallying  forth,  saw  the  usual  week-day  occupa- 
tions going  on, —  painters  painting,  glaziers  glazing, 
masons  on  their  scaffolds,  etc.,  and  heavy  drays  and 
market-wagons  going  through  the  streets,  and  many 
shops  and  bazaars  open,  —  I  must  have  presented  to 
a  scrutinizing  beholder  the  air  and  manner  of  a  man 
in  a  dream,  so  absorbed  was  I  in  running  over  the 
events  of  the  week  to  find  where  the  mistake  had 
occurred,  where  I  had  failed  to  turn  a  leaf,  or  else 
had  turned  over  two  leaves  for  one.  But  each  day 
had  a  distinct  record,  and  every  count  resulted  the 
same.  It  must  be  Sunday.  Then  it  all  dawned 
upon  me  that  this  was  Paris,  and  that  the  Parisians 


A   GLIMPSE   OF   FRANCE.  215 

did  not  have  the  reputation  of  being  very  strict  Sab- 
batarians. 

The  French  give  a  touch  of  art  to  whatever  they 
do.  Even  the  drivers  of  drays,  and  carts,  and  trucks, 
about  the  streets,  are  not  content  with  a  plain,  mat- 
ter-of-fact whip,  as  an  English  or  American  laborer 
would  be,  but  it  must  be  a  finely-modeled  stalk,  with 
a  long,  tapering  lash  tipped  with  the  best  silk  snap- 
per. Always  the  inevitable  snapper.  I  doubt  if 
there  is  a  whip  in  Paris  without  a  snapper.  Here  is 
where  the  fine  art,  the  rhetoric  of  driving,  comes  in. 
This  converts  a  vulgar,  prosy  "  gad  "  into  a  delicate 
instrument,  to  be  wielded  with  pride  and  skill,  and 
never  to  be  literally  applied  to  the  backs  of  the  ani- 
mals, but  to  be  launched  to  the  right  and  left  into 
the  air  with  a  professional  flourish,  and  a  sharp,  ring- 
ing report.  Crack  (  crack  !  crack  !  all  day  long  go 
these  ten  thousand  whips,  like  the  boys'  Fourth  of 
July  fusillade.  It  was  invariably  the  first  sound  I 
heard  when  I  opened  my  eyes  in  the  morning,  and 
generally  the  last  one  at  night.  Occasionally  some 
belated  drayman  would  come  hurrying  along  just  as 
I  was  going  to  sleep,  or  some  early  bird  before  I  was 
fully  awake  in  the  morning,  and  let  off,  in  rapid  suc- 
cession in  front  of  my  hotel,  a  volly  from  the  tip  of 
his  lash  that  would  make  the  street  echo  again,  and 
that  might  well  have  been  the  envy  of  any  ring- 
master that  ever  trod  the  tan-bark.  Now  and  then, 
during  my  ramblings,  I  would  suddenly  hear  some 
master-whip,  perhaps  that  of  an  old  omnibus-driver, 


216  AX   OCTOBER   ABROAD. 

that  would  crack  like  a  rifle,  and,  as  it  passed  along, 
all  the  lesser  whips,  all  the  amateur  snappers,  would 
sti'ike  up  with  a  jealous  and  envious  emulation,  mak- 
ing every  foot-passenger  wink,  and  one  (myself)  at 
least  almost  to  shade  his  eyes  from  the  imaginary 
missiles. 

I  record  this  fact  because  it  "  points  a  moral  and 
adorns  a  tail."  The  French  always  give  this  extra 
touch.  Everything  has  its  silk  snapper.  Are  not 
the  literary  whips  of  Paris  famous  for  their  rhetor- 
ical tips  and  the  sting  there  is  in  them?  What 
French  writer  ever  goaded  his  adversary  with  the 
belly  of  his  lash,  like  the  Germans  and  English,  when 
he  could  blister  him  with  its  silken  end,  and  the  per- 
cussion of  wit  he  heard  at  every  stroke  ? 

In  the  shops,  and  windows,  and  public  halls,  etc., 
this  passion  takes  the  form  of  mirrors,  —  mirrors 
mirrors  everywhere,  on  the  walls,  in  the  panels,  in 
the  cases,  on  the  pillars,  extending,  multiplying,  open- 
ing up  vistas  this  way  and  that,  and  converting  the 
smallest  shop,  with  a  solitary  girl  and  a  solitary  cus- 
tomer, into  an  immense  enchanted  bazaar,  across 
whose  endless  counters  customers  lean  and  pretty 
girls  display  goods.  The  French  are  always  before 
the  looking-glass,  even  when  they  eat  and  drink.  I 
never  went  into  a  restaurant  without  seeing  four  or 
five  fac-similes  of  myself  approaching  from  as  many 
different  directions,  giving  the  order  to  the  waiter, 
and  sitting  down  at  the  table.  Hence,  I  always  had 
plenty  of  company  at  dinner,  though  we  were  none  of 


A    GLIMPSE    OF   FRANCE.  217 

us  very  social,  and  I  was  the  only  one  who  entered 
or  passed  out  at  the  door.  The  show-windows  are 
the  greatest  cheat.  "What  an  expanse,  how  crowded, 
and  how  brilliant !  You  see,  for  instance,  an  immense 
array  of  jewelry,  and  pause  to  have  a  look.  You 
begin  at  the  end  nearest  you,  and,  after  gazing  a 
moment,  take  a  step  to  run  your  eye  along  the  daz- 
zling display,  when,  presto  !  the  trays  of  watches  and 
diamonds  vanish  in  a  twinkling,  and  you  find  yourself 
looking  into  the  door,  or  your  delighted  eyes  suddenly 
bring  up  against  a  brick  wall,  disenchanted  so  quickly 
that  you  almost  stagger. 

I  went  into  a  popular  music  and  dancing  hall  one 
night,  and  found  myself  in  a  perfect  enchantment  of 
mirrors.  Not  an  inch  of  wall  was  anywhere  visible. 
I  was  suddenly  caught  up  into  the  seventh  heaven 
of  looking-glasses,  from  which  I  came  down  with  a 
shock  the  moment  I  emerged  into  the  street  again. 
I  observed  that  this  mirror  contagion  had  broken  out 
in  spots  in  London,  and,  in  the  narrow  and  crowded 
condition  of  the  shops  there,  even  this  illusory  en- 
largement would  be  a  relief.  It  might  not  improve 
the  air,  or  add  to  the  available  storage  capacity  of  the 
establishment,  but  it  would  certainly  give  a  wider 
range  to  the  eye. 

The  American  no  sooner  sets  foot  on  the  soil  of 
France  than  he  perceives  he  has  entered  a  nation  of 
drinkers  as  he  has  left  a  nation  of  eaters.  Men  do 
not  live  by  bread  here,  but  by  wine.  Drink,  drink, 
drink  everywhere  —  along  all  the  boulevards,  and 


218  AN   OCTOBER  ABROAD. 

streets,  and  quays,  and  by-ways ;  in  the  restaurants 
and  under  awnings,  and  seated  on  the  open  sidewalk 
social  and  convivial  wine-bibbing  —  not  hastily  and 
in  large  quantities,  but  leisurely  and  reposingly,  and 
with  much  conversation  and  enjoyment. 

Drink,  drink,  drink,  and  with  equal  frequency  and 
nearly  as  much  openness,  the  reverse  or  diuretic  side 
of  the  fact.  (How  our  self-consciousness  would 
writhe  !  We  should  all  turn  to  stone  !)  Indeed,  the 
ceaseless  deglutition  of  mankind  in  this  part  of  the 
world  is  only  equaled  by  the  answering  and  enormous 
activity  of  the  human  male  kidneys.  This  latter  was 
too  astonishing,  and  too  public  a  fact  to  go  unmeu- 
tioned.  At  Dieppe,  by  the  reeking  tubs  standing 
about,  I  suspected  some  local  distemper,  but  when  I 
got  to  Paris,  and  saw  how  fully  and  openly  the  wants 
of  the  male  citizen  in  this  respect  were  recognized  by 
the  sanitary  and  municipal  regulations,  and  that  the 
urinals  were  thicker  than  the  lamp-posts,  I  concluded 
it  must  be  a  national  trait,  and  at  once  abandoned 
the  theory  that  had  begun  to  take  possession  of  my 
mind,  viz,  that  diabetes  was  no  doubt  the  cause  of  the 
decadence  of  France.  Yet  I  suspect  it  is  no  more 
a  peculiarity  of  French  manners  than  of  European 
manners  generally,  and  in  its  light  I  relished  im- 
mensely the  history  of  a  well-known  statue  which 
stands  in  a  public  square  in  one  of  the  German  cities. 
The  statue  commemorates  the  unblushing  audacity  of 
a  peasant  going  to  market  with  a  goose  under  each 
arm,  who  ignored  even  the  presence  of  the  king,  and 


A   GLIMPSE   OF   FRANCE.  219 

it  is  at  certain  times  dressed  up  and  made  the  centre 
of  holiday  festivities.  It  is  a  public  fountain,  and  its 
living  streams  of  water  make  it  one  of  the  most  ap- 
propriate and  suggestive  monuments  in  P^urope.  I 
would  only  suggest,  that  they  canonize  the  Little 
Man,  and  that  the  Parisians  recognize  a  tutelar  deity 
in  the  Goddess  Urea,  who  should  have  an  appropri- 
ate monument  somewhere  in  the  Place  de  la  Con- 
corde ! 

One  of  the  loveliest  features  of  Paris  is  the  Seine. 
I  was  never  tired  of  walking  along  its  course.  Its 
granite  embankments;  its  numberless  superb  bridges, 
throwing  their  graceful  spans  across  it ;  its  clear, 
limpid  water ;  its  paved  bed  ;  the  women  washing ; 
the  lively  little  boats  ;  and  the  many  noble  buildings 
that  look  down  upon  it  —  make  it  the  most  charm- 
ing citizen-river  I  ever  beheld.  Rivers  generally  get 
badly  soiled  when  they  come  to  the  city,  like  some 
other  rural  travelers  ;  but  the  Seine  is  as  pure  as  a 
meadow-brook  wherever  I  saw  it,  though  I  dare  say 
it  does  not  escape  without  some  contamination.  I 
believe  it  receives  the  sewerage  discharges  farther 
down,  and  is,  no  doubt,  turbid  and  pitchy  enough 
there,  like  its  brother,  the  Thames,  which  comes  into 
London  with  the  sky  and  the  clouds  in  its  bosom, 
and  leaves  it  reeking  with  filth  and  slime. 

After  I  had  tired  of  the  city,  I  took  a  day  to  visit 
St.  Cloud,  and  refresh  myself  by  a  glimpse  of  the 
imperial  park  there,  and  a  little  of  Nature's  privacy, 
if  such  could  be  had,  which  proved  to  be  the  case,  for 


220  AX   OCTOBER  ABROAD. 

a  more  agreeable  day  I  have  rarely  passed.  The 
park,  toward  which  I  at  once  made  my  way,  is  an 
immense  natural  forest,  sweeping  up  over  gentle  hills 
from  the  banks  of  the  Seine,  and  brought  into  order 
and  perspective  by  a  system  of  carriage-ways  and 
avenues,  which  radiate  from  numerous  centres  like 
the  boulevards  of  Paris.  At  these  centres  were  foun- 
tains and  statues,  with  sunlight  falling  upon  them  ; 
and,  looking  along  the  cool,  dusky  avenues,  as  they, 
opened,  this  way  and  that,  upon  these  marble  tab- 
leaux, the  effect  was  very  striking,  and  was  not  at  all 
marred  to  my  eye  by  the  neglect  into  which  the  place 
had  evidently  fallen.  The  woods  were  just  mellow- 
ing into  October ;  the  large,  shining  horse-chestnuts 
dropped  at  my  feet  as  I  walked  along ;  the  jay 
screamed  over  the  trees;  and  occasionally  a  red 
squirrel  —  larger  and  softer-looking  than  ours,  not 
so  sleek,  nor  so  noisy  and  vivacious — skipped  among 
the  branches.  Soldiers  passed,  here  and  there,  to 
and  from  some  encampment  on  the  farther  side  of  the 
park ;  and,  hidden  from  view  somewhere  in  the  for- 
est-glades, a  band  of  buglers  filled  the  woods  with 
wild  musical  strains. 

English  royal  parks  and  pleasure  grounds  are  quite 
different.  There  the  prevailing  character  is  pastoral 
—  immense  stretches  of  lawn,  dotted  with  the  royal 
oak,  and  alive  with  deer.  But  the  Frenchman  loves 
forests,  evidently,  and  nearly  all  his  pleasure  grounds 
about  Paris  are  immense  woods.  The  Bois  de  Bou- 
logne, the  forests  of  Yincennes,  of  St.  Germain,  of 


A  GLIMPSE   OF   FRANCE.  221 

Bondy,  and  I  don't  know  how  many  others,  are  near 
at  hand,  and  are  much  prized.  What  the  animus  of 
this  love  may  be  is  not  so  clear.  It  cannot  be  a  love 
of  solitude,  for  the  French  are  characteristically  a 
social  and  gregarious  people.  It  cannot  be  the  Eng- 
lish poetical  or  Wordsworthiau  feeling  for  Nature, 
because  French  literature  does  not  show  this  sense  or 
this  kind  of  perception.  I  am  inclined  to  think  the 
forest  is  congenial  to  their  love  of  form  and  their 
sharp  perceptions,  but  more  especially  to  that  kind  of 
fear  and  wildness  which  they  at  times  exhibit ;  for 
civilization  has  not  quenched  the  primitive  ardor  and 
fierceness  of  the  Frenchman  yet,  and  it  is  to  be  hoped 
it  never  may.  He  is  still  more  than  half  a  wild  man, 
and,  if  turned  loose  in  the  woods,  I  think  would  de- 
velop, in  tooth  and  nail,  and  in  all  the  savage,  brute 
instincts,  more  rapidly  than  the  men  of  any  other 
race,  except  possibly  the  Slavic.  Have  not  his  de- 
scendants in  this  country  —  the  Canadian  French  — 
turned  and  lived  with  the  Indians,  and  taken  to  wild, 
savage  customs  with  more  relish  and  genius  than  have 
any  other  people  ?  How  hairy  and  vehement  and 
pantomimic  he  is  !  How  his  eyes  glance  from  under 
his  heavy  brows !  His  type  among  the  animals  is 
the  wolf,  and  one  readily  recalls  how  largely  the 
wolf  figures  in  the  traditions  and  legends  and  folk- 
lore of  Continental  Europe,  and  how  closely  his  re- 
mains are  associated  with  those  of  man  in  the  bone- 
caves  of  the  geologists.  He  has  not  stalked  through 
their  forests  and  fascinated  their  imaginations  so  long 


222  AX   OCTOBER   ABROAD. 

for  nothing.  The  she-wolf  suckled  other  founders 
beside  those  of  Rome.  Especially  when  I  read  of 
the  adventures  of  Russian  and  Polish  exiles  in  Siberia 
—  men  of  aristocratic  lineage,  wandering  amid  snow 
and  arctic  cold,  sleeping  in  rocks  or  in  hollow  trees, 
and  holding  their  own,  empty-handed,  against  hunger 
and  frost  and  their  fiercer,  brute  embodiments  —  do 
I  recognize  a  hardihood  and  a  ferity  whose  wet-nurse, 
ages  back,  may  well  have  been  this  gray  slut  of  the 
woods. 

It  is  this  fierce,  untamable  core  that  gives  the  point 
and  the  splendid  audacity  to  French  literature  and 
art  —  its  vehemence  and  impatience  of  restraint.  It 
is  the  salt  of  their  speech,  the  nitre  of  their  wit. 
When  morbid,  it  gives  that  rapid  and  epileptic  ten- 
dency which  sometimes  shows  itself  in  Victor  Hugo. 
In  this  great  writer,  however,  it  more  frequently 
takes  the  form  of  an  aboriginal  fierceness  and  hunger 
that  glares  and  bristles,  and  is  insatiable  and  omnivo- 
rous. 

And  how  many  times  has  Paris,  that  boudoir  of 
beauty  and  fashion,  proved  to  be  a  wolfs  lair,  swarm- 
ing with  jaws  athirst  for  human  throats  !  —  the  lust 
for  blood  and  the  greed  for  plunder,  sleeping,  biding 
their  time,  never  extinguished. 

I  do  not  contemn  it.  To  the  natural  historian,  it 
is  good.  It  is  a  return  to  first  principles  again  after 
so  much  art,  and  culture,  and  lying,  and  chauvinisme, 
and  shows  these  old  civilizations  in  no  danger  of  be- 
coming effete  yet.  It  is  like  the  hell  of  fire  beneath 


A   GLIMPSE   OF   FEANCE.  223 

our  feet,  which  the  geologists  tell  us  is  the  life  of  the 
globe.  Were  it  not  for  it,  who  would  not  at  times 
despair  of  the  French  character  ?  As  long  as  this 
fiery  core  remains,  I  shall  believe  France  capable  of 
recovering  from  any  disaster  to  her  arms.  The 
"  mortal  ripening  "  of  the  nation  is  stayed. 

The  English  and  Germans,  on  the  other  hand,  are 
saved  by  great  breadth  and  heartiness,  and  a  consti- 
tutional tendency  to  coarseness  of  fibre  which  art  and 
civilization  abate  very  little. 

What  is  to  save  us  in  this  country,  I  wonder,  who 
have  not  the  French  regnancy  and  fire,  nor  the  Teu- 
tonic heartiness  and  vis  inertice,  and  who  are  already 
in  danger  of  refining  or  attenuating  into  a  high-heeled, 
short-jawed,  genteel  race,  with  more  brains  than 
stomach,  and  more  address  than  character  ? 


224         AN  OCTOBER  ABROAD. 


FROM  LONDON  TO  NEW  YORK. 

I  HAD  imagined  that  the  next  best  thing  to  seeing 
England  would  be  to  see  Scotland ;  but  as  this  latter 
pleasure  was  denied  me,  certainly  the  next  best  thing 
was  seeing  Scotland's  greatest  son.  Carlyle  has  been 
so  constantly  and  perhaps  justly  represented  as  a 
stormy  and  wrathful  person,  brewing  bitter  denunci- 
ation for  America  and  Americans,  that  I  cannot  for- 
bear to  mention  the  sweet  and  genial  mood  in  which 
we  found  him  —  a  gentle  and  affectionate  grandfather, 
with  his  delicious  Scotch  brogue  and  rich  melodious 
talk,  overflowing  with  reminiscences  of  his  earlier 
life,  of  Scott  and  Goethe  and  Edinburgh,  and  other 
men  and  places  he  had  known.  Learning  I  was 
especially  interested  in  birds,  he  discoursed  of  the 
lark  and  nightingale  and  mavis,  framing  his  remarks 
about  them  in  some  episode  of  his  personal  ex- 
perience, and  investing  their  songs  with  the  double 
charm  of  his  description  and  his  adventure. 

"  It  is  only  geese  who  get  plucked  there,"  said  my 
companion  after  we  had  left  —  a  man  who  had  known 
Carlyle  intimately  for  many  years  ;  "  silly  persons  who 
have  no  veneration  for  the  great  man,  and  come  to 


FROM   LONDON   TO   NEW   YORK.  22o 

convert  him  or  change  his  convictions  upon  subjects 
to  which  he  has  devoted  a  life-time  of  profound 
thought  and  meditation.  With  such  persons  he  has 
no  patience." 

Carlyle  had  just  returned  from  Scotland,  where  he 
had  spent  the  summer.  The  Scotch  hills  and  mount- 
ains, he  said,  had  an  ancient,  mournful  look,  as  if  the 
weight  of  immeasurable  time  had  settled  down  upon 
them.  Their  look  was  in  Ossian —  his  spirit  reflected 
theirs  ;  and  as  I  gazed  upon  the  venerable  man  be- 
fore me  and  noted  his  homely  and  rugged  yet  pro- 
found and  melancholy  expression,  I  knew  that  their 
look  was  upon  him  also,  and  that  a  greater  than  Os- 
sian had  been  nursed  amid  those  lonely  hills.  Few 
men  in  literature  have  felt  the  burden  of  the  world, 
the  weight  of  the  inexorable  conscience,  as  has  Car- 
lyle, or  drawn  such  fresh  inspiration  from  that  source. 
However  we  may  differ  from  him  (and  almost  in  self- 
defense  one  must  differ  from  a  man  of  such  intense 
and  overweening  personality),  it  must  yet  be  admit- 
ted that  he  habitually  speaks  out  of  that  primitive 
silence  and  solitude  in  which  only  the  heroic  soul 
dwells.  Certainly  not  in  contemporary  British  lit- 
erature is  there  another  writer  whose  bowstring  has 
such  a  twang. 

I  left  London  in  the  early  part  of  November,  and 
turned  my  face  westward,  going  leisurely  through 
England  and  Wales,  and  stringing  upon  my  thread  a 
few  of  the  famous  places,  as  Oxford,  Stratford,  War- 
wick, Birmingham,  Chester,  and  taking  a  last  look  of 
15 


226  AN    OCTOBER    ABROAD. 

the  benign  land.  The  weather  was  fair ;  I  was  yoked 
to  no  companion,  and  was  apparently  the  only  tourist 
on  that  route.  The  field  occupations  drew  my  eye 
as  usual.  They  were  very  simple,  and  consisted 
mainly  of  the  gathering  of  root  crops.  I  saw  no 
building  of  fences,  or  of  houses  or  barns,  and  no 
draining  or  improving  of  any  kind  worth  mentioning, 
these  things  having  all  been  done  long  ago.  Speak- 
ing of  barns  reminds  me  that  I  do  not  remember  to 
have  seen  a  building  of  this  kind  while  in  England, 
much  less  a  group  or  cluster  of  them  as  at  home,  hay 
and  grain  being  always  stacked,  and  the  mildness  of 
the  climate  rendering  a  protection  of  this  kind  un- 
necessary for  the  cattle  and  sheep.  In  contrast,  Amer- 
ica may  be  called  the  country  of  barns  and  out- 
buildings : 

"Thou  lucky  Mistress  of  the  tranquil  barns," 

as  Walt  Whitman  apostrophizes  the  Union. 

I  missed  also  many  familiar  features  in  the  autumn 
fields  —  those  given  to  our  landscape  by  Indian  corn, 
for  instance,  the  tent-like  stouts,  the  shucks,  the  rus- 
tling blades,  the  ripe  pumpkins  strewing  the  field ;  for 
notwithstanding  England  is  such  a  garden  our  corn 
does  not  flourish  there.  I  saw  no  buckwheat  either, 
the  red  stubble  and  little  squat  figures  of  the  upright 
sheaves  of  which  are  so  noticeable  in  our  farming 
districts  at  this  season.  Neither  did  I  see  any  gather- 
ing of  apples,  or  orchards  from  which  to  gather  them. 
"  As  sure  as  there  are  apples  in  Herefordshire,"  seems 


FROM  LONDON  TO  NEW  YORK.      227 

to  be  a  proverb  in  England ;  yet  it  is  very  certain 
that  the  orchard  is  not  the  institution  anywhere  in 
Britain  that  it  is  in  this  country,  or  so  prominent  a 
feature  in  the  landscape.  The  native  apples  are  in- 
ferior in  size  and  quality,  and  are  sold  by  the  pound. 
Pears  were  more  abundant  at  the  fruit  stands,  and 
were  of  superior  excellence  and  very  cheap. 

I  hope  it  will  not  be  set  down  to  any  egotism  of 
my  own,  but  rather  to  the  effect  upon  an  ardent  pil- 
grim of  the  associations  of  the  place  and  its  renown 
in  literature,  that  all  my  experience  at  Stratford  seems 
worthy  of  recording,  and  to  be  invested  with  a  sort  of 
poetical  interest  —  even  the  fact  that  I  walked  up  from 
the  station  with  a  handsome  young  country-woman 
who  had  chanced  to  occupy  a  seat  in  the  same  com- 
partment of  the  car  with  me  from  Warwick,  and  who, 
learning  the  nature  of  my  visit,  volunteered  to  show 
me  the  Red  Horse  Inn,  as  her  course  led  her  that 
way.  We  walked  mostly  in  the  middle  of  the  street, 
with  our  umbrellas  hoisted,  for  it  was  raining  slightly, 
while  a  boy  whom  we  found  lying  in  wait  for  such  a 
chance  trudged  along  in  advance  of  us  with  my  lug- 
gage. 

At  the  Red  Horse  the  pilgrim  is  in  no  danger  of 
having  the  charm  and  the  poetical  atmosphere  with 
which  he  has  surrounded  himself  dispelled,  but  rather 
enhanced  and  deepened,  especially  if  he  has  the  luck 
I  had,  to  find  few  other  guests,  and  to  fall  into  the 
hands  of  one  of  those  simple  strawberrylike  English 
housemaids,  who  gives  him  a  cozy,  sung  little  parlor 


228  AN    OCTOBER   ABROAD. 

all  to  himself,  as  was  the  luck  of  Irving  also ;  who 
answers  his  every  summons,  and  looks  into  his  eyes 
with  the  simplicity  and  directness  of  a  child;  who 
could  step  from  no  page  but  that  of  Scott  or  the 
divine  William  himself;  who  puts  the  '•  coals  "  on 
your  grate  with  her  own  hands,  and  when  you  ask 
for  a  lunch  spreads  the  cloth  on  one  end  of  the  table 
while  you  sit  reading  or  writing  at  the  other,  and 
places  before  you  a  whole  haunch  of  delicious  cold 
mutton  with  bread  and  homebrewed  ale,  and  requests 
you  to  help  yourself;  who,  when  bedtime  arrives, 
lights  you  up  to  a  clean,  sweet  chamber,  with  a  high 
canopied  bed  hung  with  snow-white  curtains  ;  who 
calls  you  in  the  morning,  and  makes  ready  your 
breakfast  while  you  sit  with  your  feet  on  the  fender 
before  the  blazing  grate  ;  and  to  whom  you  pay  your 
reckoning  on  leaving,  having  escaped  entirely  all  the 
barrenness  and  publicity  of  hotel  life,  and  had  all  the 
privacy  and  quiet  of  home  without  any  of  its  cares 
or  interruptions.  And  this,  let  me  say  here,  is  the 
great  charm  of  the  characteristic  English  inn  ;  it  has 
a  domestic,  homelike  air.  "  Taking  mine  ease  at 
mine  inn  "  has  a  real  significance  in  England.  You 
can  take  your  ease  and  more  ;  you  can  take  real  solid 
comfort.  In  the  first  place,  there  is  no  bar-room, 
and  consequently  no  loafers,  or  pimps,  or  fumes  of 
tobacco  or  whiskey ;  then  there  is  no  landlord  or 
proprietor  or  hotel  clerk  to  lord  it  over  you.  The 
host,  if  there  is  such  a  person,  has  a  way  of  keeping 
himself  in  the  background,  or  absolutely  out  of  sight, 


FROM  LONDON  TO  NEW  YORK.      229 

that  is  entirely  admirable.  You  are  monarch  of  all 
you  survey.  You  are  not  made  to  feel  that  it  is  in 
some  one  else's  house  you  are  stopping,  and  that  you 
must  court  the  master  for  his  favor.  It  is  your  house, 
you  are  the  master,  and  you  have  only  to  enjoy  your 
own. 

In  the  gray,  misty  afternoon  I  walked  out  over 
the  Avon,  like  all  English  streams  full  to  its  grassy 
brim,  and  its  current  betrayed  only  by  a  floating 
leaf  or  feather,  and  along  English  fields  and  roads, 
and  noted  the  familiar  sights  and  sounds  and  smells 
of  autumn.  The  spire  of  the  church  where  Shake- 
speare lies  buried  shot  up  stately  and  tall  from  the 
banks  of  the  Avon,  a  little  removed  from  the  village  ; 
and  the  church  itself,  more  like  a  cathedral  in  size 
and  beauty,  was  also  visible  above  the  trees.  Thith- 
erward I  soon  bent  my  steps,  and  while  I  was  lin- 
gering among  the  graves,1  reading  the  names  and 
dates  so  many  centuries  old,  and  surveying  the  gray 
and  weather-worn  exterior  of  the  church,  the  slow 
tolling  of  the  bell  announced  a  funeral.  Upon  such 
a  stage,  and  amid  such  surroundings,  with  all  this 
past  for  a  background,  the  shadowy  figure  of  the  peer- 
less bard  towering  over  all,  the  incident  of  the  mo- 
ment had  a  strange  interest  to  me,  and  I  looked  about 
for  the  funeral  cortege.  Presently  a  group  of  three 

1  In  England  the  church  always  stands  in  the  midst  of  the 
graveyard,  and  hence  can  be  approached  only  on  foot.  People,  it 
seems,  never  go  to  church  in  carriages  or  wagons,  but  on  foot, 
along  paths  and  lanes. 


230  AX  OCTOBER   ABROAD. 

or  four  figures  appeared  at  the  head  of  the  avenue  of 
limes,  foremost  of  them,  a  woman,  bearing  an  infant's 
coffin  under  her  arm,  wrapped  in  a  white  sheet.  The 
clerk  and  sexton,  with  their  robes  on,  went  out  to 
meet  them,  and  conducted  them  into  the  church, 
where  the  service  proper  to  such  occasions  was  read, 
after  which  the  coffin  was  taken  out  as  it  was  brought 
in,  and  lowered  into  the  grave.  It  was  the  smallest 
funeral  I  ever  saw,  and  my  efforts  to  play  the  part  of 
a  sympathizing  public  by  hovering  in  the  background, 
I  fear,  was  only  an  intrusion  after  all. 

Having  loitered  to  my  heart's  content  amid  the 
stillness  of  the  old  church,  and  paced  to  and  fro  above 
the  illustrious  dead,  I  set  out,  with  the  sun  about  an 
hour  high,  to  see  the  house  of  Anne  Hathaway  at 
Shattery,  shunning  the  highway  and  following  a 
path  that  followed  hedge-rows,  crossed  meadows  and 
pastures,  skirted  turnip  fields  and  cabbage  patches,  to 
a  quaint  gathering  of  low  thatched  houses  —  a  little 
village  of  farmers  and  laborers  about  a  mile  from 
Stratford.  At  the  gate  in  front  of  the  house  a  boy 
was  hitching  a  little  gray  donkey,  almost  hidden  be- 
neath two  immense  panniers  filled  with  coarse  hay. 

"  Whose  house  is  this  ?  "  inquired  I,  not  being  quite 
able  to  make  out  the  name. 

"  Hann  'Ataway's  'ouse,"  said  he. 

So  I  took  a  good  look  at  Anne's  house  —  a  homely 
human-looking  habitation,  with  its  old  oak  beams  and 
thatched  roof —  but  did  not  go  in,  as  Mrs.  Baker,  who 
was  eyeing  me  from  the  door,  evidently  hoped  I  would, 


FROM  LONDON  TO  NEW  YORK.      231 

but  chose  rather  to  walk  past  it  and  up  the  slight 
rise  of  ground  beyond,  where  I  paused  and  looked 
out  over  the  fields  just  lit  up  by  the  setting  sun.  Re- 
turning, I  stepped  into  the  Shakespeare  Tavern,  a 
little  homely  wayside  place  on  a  street,  or  more  like 
a  path,  apart  from  the  main  road,  and  the  good  dame 
brought  me  some  "  home-brewed,"  which  I  drank 
sitting  by  a  rude  table  on  a  rude  bench  in  a  small, 
low  room,  with  a  stone  floor  and  an  immense  chim- 
ney. The  coals  burned  cheerily,  and  the  crane  and 
hooks  in  the  fireplace  called  up  visions  of  my  earliest 
childhood.  Apparently  the  house  and  the  surround- 
ings, and  the  atmosphere  of  the  place  and  the  ways 
of  the  people,  were  what  they  were  three  hundred 
years  ago.  It  was  all  sweet  and  good,  and  I  enjoyed 
it  hugely,  and  was  much  refreshed. 

Crossing  the  fields  in  the  gloaming,  I  came  up  with 
some  children,  each  with  a  tin  bucket  of  milk,  thread- 
ing their  way  toward  Stratford.  The  little  girl,  a 
child  ten  years  old,  having  a  larger  bucket  than  the 
rest,  was  obliged  to  set  down  her  burden  every  few 
rods  and  rest ;  so  I  lent  her  a  helping  hand.  I 
thought  her  prattle,  in  that  broad  but  musical  patois, 
and  along  these  old  hedge-rows,  the  most  delicious  I 
ever  heard.  She  said  they  came  to  Shattery  for  milk 
because  it  was  much  better  than  they  got  at  Stratford. 
In  America  they  had  a  cow  of  their  own.  Had  she 
lived  in  America  then  ?  "  Oh,  yes,  four  years,"  and 
the  stream  of  her  talk  was  fuller  at  once.  But  I 
hardly  recognized  even  the  name  of  my  own  country 


232  AN   OCTOBER  ABROAD. 

in  her  innocent  prattle  ;  it  seemed  like  a  land  of  fa- 
ble —  all  had  a  remote  mythological  air,  and  I 
pressed  my  iniquiries  as  if  I  was  hearing  of  this 
strange  land  for  the  first  time.  She  had  an  uncle 
still  living  in  the  "  States  of  Hoio,"  but  exactly  where 
her  father  had  lived  was  not  so  clear.  In  The  States 
somewhere,  and  in  "  Ogden's  Valley."  There  was  a 
lake  there  that  had  salt  in  it,  and  not  far  off  was  the 
sea.  "  In  America,"  she  said,  and  she  gave  such  a 
sweet  and  novel  twang  to  her  words,  "  we  had  a  cow 
of  our  own,  and  two  horses  and  a  wagon  and  a  dog." 
"  Yes,"  joined  in  her  little  brother,  "  and  nice  chick- 
ens and  a  goose."  "  But,"  continued  the  sister,  "  we 
owns  none  o'  them  here."  "In  America  'most  every- 
body owned  their  houses,  and  we  could  a'  owned  a 
house  if  we  had  stayid." 

"  What  made  you  leave  America  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  'Cause  me  father  wanted  to  see  his  friends." 

"  Did  your  mother  want  to  come  back  ?  " 

"  No,  me  mother  wanted  to  stay  in  America." 

"  Is  food  as  plenty  here  —  do  you  have  as  much  to 
eat  as  in  The  States  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  and  more.  The  first  year  we  were  in 
America  we  could  not  get  enough  to  eat." 

"  But  you  do  not  get  meat  very  often  here,  do 
you  ?  " 

"  Quite  often," — not  so  confidently. 

"  How  often  ?  " 

••  AVell,  sometimes  we  has  pig's  liver  in  the  week 
time,  and  we  allers  has  meat  of  a  Sunday ;  we  likes 
meat." 


FROM  LONDON   TO  NEW   YORK.  233 

Here  we  emerged  from  the  fields  into  the  high- 
way, and  the  happy  children  went  their  way  and  I 
mine.  • 

In  the  evening,  as  I  was  strolling  about  the  town, 
a  poor,  crippled,  half-witted  fellow  came  jerking  him- 
self across  the  street  after  me  and  offered  himself  as 
a  guide. 

"I'm  the  feller  what  showed  Artemus  Ward 
around  when  he  was  here.  You  've  heerd  on  me,  I 
expect  ?  Not  ?  Why,  he  characterized  me  in  '  Punch,' 
he  did.  He  asked  me  if  Shakespeare  took  all  the  wit 
out  of  Stratford?  And  this  is  what  I  said  to  him: 
'  No,  he  left  some  for  me.' " 

But  not  wishing  to  be  guided  just  then,  I  bought 
the  poor  fellow  off  with  a  few  pence,  and  kept  on  ray 
way. 

Stratford  is  a  quiet  old  place,  -and  seems  mainly 
the  abode  of  simple  common  folk.  One  sees  no 
marked  signs  of  either  poverty  or  riches.  It  is  situ- 
ated in  a  beautiful  expanse  of  rich  rolling  farming 
country,  but  bears  little  resemblance  to  a  rural  town 
in  America :  not  a  tree,  not  a  spear  of  grass ;  the 
houses  packed  close  together  and  crowded  up  on  the 
street,  the  older  ones  presenting  their  gables  and 
showing  their  structure  of  oak  beams.  English  oak 
seems  incapable  of  decay  even  when  exposed  to  the 
weather,  while  in-doors  it  takes  three  or  four  centu- 
ries to  give  it  its  best  polish  and  hue. 

I  took  my  last  view  of  Stratford  quite  early  of  a 
bright  Sunday  morning,  when  the  ground  was  white 


234  AN   OCTOBER   ABROAD. 

with  a  dense  hoar-frost.  The  great  church,  as  I  ap- 
proached it,  loomed  up  under  the  sun  through  a  bank 
of  blue  mist.  The  Avon  was  like  glass,  with  little 
wraiths  of  vapor  clinging  here  and  there  to  its  sur- 
face. Two  white  swans  stood  on  its  banks  in  front 
of  the  church,  and,  without  regarding  the  mirror  that 
so  drew  my  eye,  preened  their  plumage ;  while  farther 
up,  a  piebald  cow  reached  down  for  some  grass  under 
the  brink  where  the  frost  had  not  settled,  and  a  pie- 
bald cow  in  the  river  reached  up  for  the  same  morsel. 
Eooks  and  crows  and  jackdaws  were  noisy  in  the 
trees  overhead  and  about  the  church  spire.  I  stood 
a  long  while  musing  upon  the  scene. 

At  the  birthplace  of  the  poet,  the  keeper,  an  elderly 
woman,  shivered  with  cold  as  she  showed  me  about. 
The  primitive,  home-made  appearance  of  things,  the 
stone  floor  much  worn  and  broken,  the  rude  oak 
beams  and  doors,  the  leaden  sash  with  the  little  win- 
dow panes  scratched  full  of  names,  among  others  that 
of  Walter  Scott,  the  great  chimneys  where  quite  a 
family  could  literally  sit  in  the  chimney  corner,  etc., 
were  what  I  expected  to  see,  and  looked  very  human 
and  good.  It  is  impossible  to  associate  anything  but 
sterling  qualities  and  simple,  healthful  characters 
with  these  early  English  birthplaces.  They  are  nests 
built  with  faithfulness  and  affection,  and  through  them 
one  seems  to  get  a  glimpse  of  devouter,  sturdier 
times. 

From  Stratford  I  went  back  to  "Warwick,  thence 
to  Birmingham,  thence  to  Shrewsbury,  thence  to 


FROM  LONDON  TO  NEW  YORK.      235 

Chester,  the  old  Roman  camp,  thence  to  Holyhead, 
being  intent  on  getting  a  glimpse  of  Wales  and  the 
Welsh,  and  may  be  taking  a  tramp  up  Snowdon  or 
some  of  his  congeners,  for  my  legs  literally  ached  for 
a  mountain  climb,  a  certain  set  of  muscles  being  so 
long  unused.  In  the  course  of  my  journey  ings  I  tried 
each  class  or  compartment  of  the  cars,  first,  second, 
and  third,  and  found  but  little  choice.  The  difference 
is  simply  in  the  upholstering,  and  if  you  are  provided 
with  a  good  shawl  or  wrap-up,  you  need  not  be  par- 
ticular about  that.  In  the  first,  the  floor  is  carpeted 
and  the  seats  substantially  upholstered,  usually  in 
blue  woolen  cloth ;  in  the  second,  the  seat  alone  is 
cushioned  ;  and  in  the  third,  you  sit  on  a  bare  bench. 
But  all  classes  go  by  the  same  train,  and  often  in  the 
same  car,  or  carriage,  as  they  say  here.  In  the  first 
class,  travel  the  real  and  the  shoddy  nobility  and 
Americans ;  in  the  second,  commercial  and  profes- 
sional men ;  and  in  the  third,  the  same,  with  such  of 
the  peasantry  and  humbler  classes  as  travel  by  rail. 
The  only  annoyance  I  experienced  in  the  third  class 
arose  from  the  freedom  with  which  the  smokers, 
always  largely  in  the  majority,  indulged  in  their 
favorite  pastime.  (I  perceive  there  is  one  advantage 
in  being  a  smoker :  you  are  never  at  a  loss  for  some- 
thing to  do  —  you  can  smoke.) 

At  Chester  I  stopped  over  night,  selecting  my 
hotel  for  its  name,  the  "  Green  Dragon."  It  was 
Sunday  night,  and  the  only  street  scene  my  rambles 
afforded  was  quite  a  large  gathering  of  persons  on  a 


236  AN   OCTOBER   ABROAD. 

corner  listening,  apparently  with  indifference  or  cu- 
riosity, to  an  ignorant,  hot-headed  street  preacher. 
"  Now  I  am  going  to  tell  you  something  you  will  not 
like  to  hear — something  that  will  make  you  angry. 
I  know  it  will.  It  is  this :  I  expect  to  go  to  heaven, 
I  am  perfectly  confident  I  shall  go  there.  I  know 
you  do  not  like  that."  But  why  his  hearers  should 
not  like  that  did  not  appear.  For  my  part  I  thought, 
for  the  good  of  all  concerned,  the  sooner  he  went  the 
better. 

In  the  morning  I  mounted  the  wall  in  front  of  the 
cathedral,  and  with  a  very  lively  feeling  of  wonder  and 
astonishment  walked  completely  around  the  town  on 
top  of  it,  a  distance  of  about  two  miles.  The  wall,  be- 
ing in  places  as  high  as  the  houses,  afforded  some  in- 
teresting views  into  attics,  chambers,  back  yards,  etc. 
I  envied  the  citizens  such  a  delightful  promenade 
ground,  full  of  variety  and  interest.  Just  the  right 
distance,  too,  for  a  brisk  turn  to  get  up  an  appetite^ 
or  a  leisurely  stroll  to  tone  down  a  dinner ;  while  as 
a  place  for  chance  meetings  of  happy  lovers,  or  to  get 
away  from  one's  companions  if  the  flame  must  burn 
in  secret  and  in  silence,  it  is  unsurpassed.  I  occa- 
sionally met  or  passed  other  pedestrians,  but  noticed 
that  it  required  a  brisk  pace  to  lessen  the  distance 
between  myself  and  an  attractive  girlish  figure  a  few 
hundred  feet  in  advance  of  me.  The  railroad  cuts 
across  one  corner  of  the  town,  piercing  the  walls  with 
two  very  carefully  constructed  archways.  Indeed, 
the  people  are  very  choice  of  the  wall,  and  one  sees 


FROM  LONDON  TO  NEW  YORK.      237 

posted  notices  of  the  city  authorities,  offering  a  re- 
ward for  any  one  detected  in  injuring  it.  It  has  stood 
now  some  seven  or  eight  centuries,  and  from  appear- 
ances is  good  for  one  or  two  more.  There  are  several 
towers  on  the  wall,  from  one  of  which  some  English 
king,  over  two  hundred  years  ago,  witnessed  the  de- 
feat of  his  army  on  Rowton  Moor.  But  when  I  was 
there,  though  the  sun  was  shining,  the  atmosphere 
was  so  loaded  with  smoke  that  I  could  not  catch  even 
a  glimpse  of  the  moor  where  the  battle  took  place. 
There  is  a  gateway  through  the  wall  on  each  of  the 
four  sides,  and  this  slender  and  beautiful  but  blackened 
and  worn  span,  as  if  to  afford  a  transit  from  the 
chamber  windows  on  one  side  of  the  street  to  those 
of  the  other,  is  the  first  glimpse  the  traveler  gets  of 
the  wall.  The  gates  beneath  the  arches  have  en 
tirely  disappeared.  The  ancient  and  carved  oak 
fronts  of  the  buildings  on  the  main  street,  and  the 
inclosed  sidewalk  that  ran  through  the  second  stories 
of  the  shops  and  stores,  were  not  less  strange  and 
novel  to  me.  The  sidewalk  was  like  a  gentle  up- 
heaval in  its  swervings  and  undulations,  or  like  a  walk 
through  the  woods,  the  oaken  posts  and  braces  on  the 
outside  answering  for  the  trees,  and  the  prospect 
ahead  for  the  vista. 

The  ride  along  the  coast  of  "Wales  was  crowded 
with  novelty  and  interest  —  the  sea  on  one  side  and 
the  mountains  on  the  other  —  the  latter  bleak  and 
heathery  in  the  foreground,  but  cloud-capped  and 
snow-white  in  the  distance.  The  afternoon  was  dark 


288  AX   OCTOBER   ABROAD. 

and  lowering,  and  just  before  entering  Conway  we 
had  a  very  striking  view.  -A  turn  in  the  road  sud- 
denly brought  us  to  where  we  looked  through  a 
black  frame-work  of  heathery  hills,  and  beheld  Snow- 
don  and  his  chiefs  apparently  with  the  full  rigors  of 
winter  upon  them.  It  was  so  satisfying  that  I  lost 
at  once  my  desire  to  tramp  up  them.  I  barely  had 
time  to  turn  from  the  mountains  to  get  a  view  of 
Conway  Castle,  one  of  the  largest  and  most  impres- 
sive ruins  I  saw.  The  train  cuts  close  to  the  great 
round  tower,  and  plunges  through  the  wall  of  gray, 
shelving  stone  into  the  bluff  beyond,  giving  the 
traveler  only  time  to  glance  and  marvel. 

About  the  only  glimpse  I  got  of  the  Welsh  charac- 
ter was  on  this  route.  At  one  of  the  stations,  Aber- 
gele,  I  think,  a  fresh,  blooming  young  woman  got  into 
our  compartment,  occupied  by  myself  and  two  com- 
mercial travelers  (bag-men,  or,  as  we  say,  "  drum- 
mers "),  and  before  she  could  take  her  seat  was  com- 
plimented by  one  of  them  on  her  good  looks.  Feeling 
in  a  measure  responsible  for  the  honor  and  good 
breeding  of  the  compartment,  I  could  hardly  conceal 
my  embarrassment;  but  the  young  Abergeless  her- 
self did  not  seem  to  take  it  amiss,  and  when  presently 
the  jolly  bag-man  addressed  his  conversation  to  her, 
replied  beseemingly  and  good-naturedly.  As  she 
arose  to  leave  the  car  at  her  destination,  a  few  stations 
beyond,  he  said  "  he  thought  it  a  pity  that  such  a 
sweet,  pretty  girl  should  leave  us  so  soon,"  and  seiz- 
ing her  hand  the  audacious  rascal  actually  solicited  a 


FROM  LONDON  TO  NEW  YORK.      239 

kiss.  I  expected  this  would  be  the  one  drop  too 
much,  and  that  we  should  .have  a  scene,  and  began  to 
regard  myself  in  the  light  of  an  avenger  of  an  insulted 
Welsh  beauty,  when  my  heroine  paused,  and  I  be- 
lieve actually  deliberated  whether  or  not  to  comply 
before  two  spectators  !  Certain  it  is  that  she  yielded 
the  highwayman  her  hand,  and  bidding  him  a  gentle 
good-night  in  Welsh,  smilingly  and  blushingly  left 
the  car.  '•  Ah,"  said  the  villain,  "  these  Welsh  girls 
are  capital  ;  I  know  them  like  a  book,  and  have  had 
many  a  lark  with  them." 

At  Holyhead  I  got  another  glimpse  of  the  Welsh. 
I  had  booked  for  Dublin,  and  having  several  hours  on 
my  hands  of  a  dark,  threatening  night  before  the  de- 
parture of  the  steamer,  I  sallied  out  in  the  old  town, 
tilted  up  against  the  side  of  the  hill,  in  the  most  ad- 
venturous spirit  I  could  summon  up,  threading  my 
way  through  the  dark,  deserted  streets,  pausing  for  a 
moment  in  front  of  a  small  house  with  closed  doors 
and  closely-shuttered  windows,  where  I  heard  sup- 
pressed voices,  the  monotonous  scraping  of  a  fiddle, 
and  a  lively  shuffling  of  feet,  and  passing  on  finally 
entered,  drawn  by  the  musical  strains,  a  quaint  old 
place,  where  a  blind  harper  seated  in  the  corner  of  a 
rude  kind  of  coffee  and  sitting-room,  was  playing 
on  a  harp.  I  liked  the  atmosphere  of  the  place,  so 
primitive  and  wholesome,  and  was  quite  willing  to 
have  my  attention  drawn  off  from  the  increasing 
storm  without,  and  from  the  bitter  cup  which  I  knew 
the  Irish  sea  was  preparing  for  me.  The  harper 


240         AN  OCTOBER  ABROAD. 

presently  struck  up  a  livelier  strain,  when  two  Welsh 
girls,  who  were  chatting  before  the  grate,  one  of  them 
as  dumpy  as  a  bag  of  meal,  and  the  other  slender  and 
tall,  stepped  into  the  middle  of  the  floor  and  began  to 
dance  to  the  delicious  music,  a  Welsh  mechanic  and 
myself  drinking  our  ale  and  looking  on  approvingly. 
After  a  while  the  pleasant,  modest-looking  bar-maid, 
whom  I  had  seen  behind  the  beer  levers  as  I  entered, 
came  in,  and,  after  looking  on  for  a  moment,  was 
persuaded  to  lay  down  her  sewing  and  join  in  the 
dance.  Then  there  came  in  a  sandy-haired  Welsh- 
man, who  could  speak  and  understand  only  his  native 
dialect,  and  finding  his  neighbors  affiliating  with  an 
Englishman,  as  he  supposed,  and  trying  to  speak  the 
hateful  tongue,  proceeded  to  berate  them  sharply  (for 
it  appears  the  Welsh  are  still  jealous  of  the  English)  ; 
but  when  they  explained  to  him  that  I  was  not  an 
Englishman,  but  an  American,  and  had  already  twice 
stood  the  beer  all  around  (at  an  outlay  of  sixpence), 
he  subsided  into  a  sulky  silence  and  regarded  me  in- 
tently. 

About  eleven  o'clock  a  policeman  'paused  at  the 
door  and  intimated  that  it  was  time  the  house  was 
shut  up  and  the  music  stopped,  and  to  outward  ap- 
pearances his  friendly  warning  was  complied  with ; 
but  the  harp  still  discoursed  in  a  minor  key,  and  a 
light  tripping  and  shuffling  of  responsive  feet  might 
occasionally  have  been  heard  for  an  hour  later. 
When  I  arose  to  go  it  was  with  a  feeling  of  regret 
that  I  could  not  see  more  of  this  simple  and  social 


FROM  LONDON  TO  NEW  YORK.      241 

people,  with  whom  I  at  once  felt  that  "  touch  of  nat- 
ure "  which  "  makes  all  the  world  kin,"  and  my  leave- 
taking  was  warm  and  hearty  accordingly. 

Through  the  wind  and  the  darkness  I  threaded  my 
way  to  the  wharf,  and  in  less  than  two  hours  after- 
ward was  a  most  penitent  voyager,  and  fitfully  join- 
ing in  that  doleful  gastriloqual  chorus  that  so  often 
goes  up  from  the  cabins  of  those  channel  steamers. 

I  hardly  know  why  I  went  to  Ireland,  except  it 
was  to  indulge  the  few  drops  of  Irish  blood  in  my 
veins,  and  may  be  also  with  a  view  to  shorten  my 
sea  voyage  by  a  day.  I  also  felt  a  desire  to  see  one 
or  two  literary  men  there,  and  in  this  sense  my  jour- 
ney was  eminently  gratifying  ;  but  so  far  from  short- 
ening my  voyage  by  a  day,  it  lengthened  it  by  three 
days,  that  being  the  time  it  took  me  to  recover  from 
the  effects  of  it ;  and  as  to  the  tie  of  blood,  I  think  it 
must  nearly  all  have  run  out,  for  I  felt  but  few  con- 
genital throbs  while  in  Ireland. 

The  Englishman  at  home  is  a  much  more  lova- 
ble animal  than  the  Englishman  abroad,  but  Pat  in 
Ireland  is  even  more  of  a  pig  than  in  this  country. 
Indeed,  the  squalor  and  poverty,  and  cold,  skinny 
wretchedness  one  sees  in  Ireland,  and  (what  freezes 
our  sympathies)  the  groveling,  swiny  shiftlessness 
that  pervades  these  hovels,  no  traveler  can  be  pre- 
pared for.  It  is  the  bare  prose  of  misery,  the  unhe- 
roic  of  tragedy.  There  is  not  one  redeeming  or  miti- 
gating feature. 

Railway  traveling  in  Ireland  is  not  so  rapid  or  so 
16 


242  AN   OCTOBER   ABROAD. 

cheap  as  in  England.  Neither  are  the  hotels  as  good 
or  as  clean,  or  the  fields  so  well  kept,  or  the  look  of 
the  country  so  thrifty  and  peaceful.  The  dissatisfac- 
tion of  the  people  is  in  the  very  air.  Ireland  looks 
sour  and  sad.  She  looks  old,  too,  as  do  all  those 
countries  beyond  seas,  old  in  a  way  that  the  Ameri- 
can is  a  stranger  to.  It  is  not  the  age  of  nature,  the 
unshaken  permanence  of  the  hills  through  long  peri- 
ods of  time,  but  the  weight  of  human  years  and 
human  sorrows,  as  if  the  earth  sympathized  with  man 
and  took  on  his  attributes  and  infirmities. 

I  did  not  go  much  about  Dublin,  and  the  most 
characteristic  thing  I  saw  there  were  those  queer, 
uncomfortable  dog  carts,  a  sort  of  Irish  bull  on  wheels, 
with  the  driver  on  one  side  balancing  the  passenger 
on  the  other,  and  the  luggage  occupying  the  seat  of 
safety  between.  It  comes  the  nearest  to  riding  on 
horseback,  and  on  a  side-saddle  at  that,  of  any  vehicle 
traveling  I  ever  did. 

I  stopped  part  of  a  day  at  Mallow,  an  old  town  on 
the  Blackwater,  in  one  of  the  most  fertile  agricultural 
districts  of  Ireland.  The  situation  is  fine,  and  an 
American  naturally  expects  to  see  a  charming  rural 
town  planted  with  trees  and  filled  with  clean,  com- 
fortable homes ;  but  he  finds  instead  a  wretched  place, 
smitten  with  a  plague  of  filth  and  mud,  and  offering 
but  one  object  upon  which  the  eye  can  dwell  with 
pleasure,  and  that  is  the  ruins  of  an  old  castle,  '•  Mal- 
low Castle  over  Blackwater,"  which  dates  back  to  the 
time  of  Queen  Elizabeth.  It  stands  amid  noble  trees 


FROM  LONDON  TO  NEW  YORK.      243 

on  the  banks  of  the  river,  and  its  walls,  some  of  them 
thirty  or  fcrty  feet  high,  are  completely  overrun  with 
ivy.  The  Blackwater,  a  rapid,  amber-colored  stream, 
is  spanned  at  this  point  by  a  superb  granite  bridge. 

And  I  will  say  here  that  anything  like  a  rural  town 
in  our  sense,  a  town  with  trees  and  grass  and  large 
spaces  about  the  houses,  gardens,  yards,  shrubbery, 
coolness,  fragrance,  etc.,  seems  unknown  in  England 
or  Ireland.  The  towns  and  villages  are  all  remnants 
of  feudal  times,  and  seem  to  have  been  built  with  an 
eye  to  safety  and  compactness,  or  else  men  were  more 
social  and  loved  to  get  closer  together  then  than  now. 
Perhaps  the  damp,  chilly  climate  made  them  draw 
nearer  together.  At  any  rate,  the  country  towns  are 
little  cities  ;  or  rather  it  is  as  if  another  London  had 
been  cut  up  in  little  and  big  pieces  and  distributed 
over  the  land. 

In  the  afternoon,  to  take  the  kinks  out  of  my  legs, 
and  quicken  if  possible  my  circulation  a  little,  which 
since  the  passage  over  the  Channel  had  felt  as  if  it  was 
thick  and  green,  I  walked  rapidly  to  the  top  of  the 
Kockmeledown  Mountains,  getting  a  good  view  of 
•Irish  fields  and  roads  and  fences  as  I  went  up,  and  a 
very  wide  and  extensive  view  of  the  country  after  I 
had  reached  the  summit,  and  improving  the  atmos- 
phere of  my  physical  tenement  amazingly.  These 
mountains  have  no  trees  or  bushes  or  other  growth 
than  a  harsh  prickly  heather,  about  a  foot  high, 
which  begins  exactly  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain. 
You  are  walking  on  smooth,  fine  meadow  land,  when 


244  AN  OCTOBER  ABROAD. 

you  leap  a  fence  and  there  is  the  heather.  On  the 
highest  point  of  this  mountain,  and  on  the  highest 
point  of  all  the  mountains  around,  was  a  low  stone 
mound,  which  I  was  puzzled  to  know  the  meaning  of. 
Standing  there,  the  country  rolled  away  beneath  me 
under  a  cold,  gray  November  sky,  and,  as  was  the  case 
with  the  English  landscape,  looked  singularly  deso- 
late—  the  desolation  of  a  dearth,  of  human  homes,  in- 
dustrial centres,  families,  workers,  and  owners  of  the 
soil.  Few  roads,  scarce  ever  a  vehicle,  no  barns,  no 
groups  of  bright,  well-ordered  buildings,  indeed  no 
farms  and  neighborhoods  and  school-houses,  but  a 
wide  spread  of  rich,  highly-cultivated  country,  with 
here  and  there  visible  to  close  scrutiny  small  gray 
stone  houses  with  thatched  roofs,  the  abodes  of  pov- 
erty and  wretchedness.  A  recent  English  writer  says 
the  first  thing  that  struck  him  in  American  landscape 
painting  was  the  absence  of  man  and  the  domestic 
animals  from  the  pictures,  and  the  preponderance  of 
rude,  wild  nature ;  and  his  first  view  of  this  country 
seems  to  have  made  the  same  impression.  But  it  is 
certainly  true  that  the  traveler  through  any  of  our 
older  States,  will  see  ten  houses,  rural  habitations,  to 
one  in  England  or  Ireland,  though,  as  a  matter  of 
course,  nature  here  looks  much  less  domesticated  and 
much  less  expressive  of  human  occupancy  and  con- 
tact. The  Old  World  people  have  clung  to  the  soil 
closer  and  more  lovingly  than  we  do.  The  ground 
has  been  more  precious.  They  have  had  none  to 
waste,  and  have  made  the  most  of  every  inch  of  it. 


FROM   LONDON   TO   NEW   YORK.  245 

Wherever  they  have  touched  they  have  taken  root 
and  throve  as  best  they  could.  Then  the  American 
is  more  cosmopolitan  and  less  domestic.  He  is  not 
so  local  in  his  feelings  and  attachments.  He  does 
not  bestow  himself  upon  the  earth  or  upon  his  home 
as  his  ancestors  did.  He  feathers  his  nest  very  little. 
Why  should  he  ?  He  may  migrate  to-morrow  and 
build  another.  He  is  like  .the  passenger  pigeon  that 
lays  its  eggs  and  rears  its  young  upon  a  little  platform 
of  bare  twigs.  Our  poverty  and  nakedness  is,  in  this 
respect,  I  think,  beyond  dispute.  There  is  nothing 
nest-like  about  our  homes,  either  in  their  interiors  or 
exteriors.  Even  wealth  and  taste  and  foreign  aids 
rarely  attain  that  cozy,  mellowing  atmosphere  that 
pervades  not  only  the  lowly  birthplaces  but  the  halls 
and  manor-houses  of  older  lands.  And  what  do  our 
farms  represent  but  so  much  real  estate,  so  much 
cash  value? 

Only  where  man  loves  the  soil  and  nestles  to  it 
closely  and  long,  will  it  take  on  this  beneficent  and 
human  look  which  foreign  travelers  miss  in  our  land- 
scape ;  and  only  where  homes  are  built  with  fondness 
and  emotion,  and  in  obedience  to  the  social,  paternal, 
and  domestic  instincts,  will  they  hold  the  charm  and 
radiate  and  be  warm  with  the  feeling  I  have  de- 
scribed. 

And  while  I  am  upon  the  subject,  I  will  add  that 
European  cities  differ  from  ours  in  this  same  particu- 
lar. They  have  a  homelier  character  —  more  the 
air  of  dwelling-places,  the  abodes  of  men  drawn  to- 


246  AN   OCTOBER   ABROAD. 

gether  for  other  purposes  than  traffic.  People  actu- 
ally live  in  them,  and  find  life  sweet  and  festal.  But 
what  does  our  greatest  city,  New  York,  express  be- 
sides commerce  or  politics,  or  what  other  reason  has 
it  for  its  existence  ?  This  is,  of  course,  in  a  measure 
the  result  of  the  modern  worldly  arid  practical  business 
spirit,  which  more  and  more  animates  all  nations,  and 
which  led  Carlyle  to  say  of  his  own  countrymen  that 
they  were  becoming  daily  more  "  flat,  stupid,  and 
mammonish."  Yet  I  am  persuaded  that  in  our  case 
it  is  traceable  also  to  the  leanness  and  depletion  of 
our  social  and  convivial  instincts,  and  to  the  fact  that 
the  material  cares  of  life  are  more  serious  and  en- 
grossing with  us  than  with  any  other  people. 

I  spent  part  of  a  day  at  Cork,  wandering  about  the 
town,  threading  my  way  through  the  back  streets  and 
alleys,  and  seeing  life  reduced  to  fewer  makeshifts 
than  I  had  ever  before  dreamed  of.  I  went  through, 
or  rather  skirted,  a  kind  of  second-hand  market,  where 
the  most  sorry  and  dilapidated  articles  of  clothing 
and  household  utensils  were  offered  for  sale,  and 
where  the  cobblers  were  cobbling  up  old  shoes  that 
would  hardly  hold  together.  Then  the  wretched  old 
women  one  sees,  without  any  sprinkling  of  young 
ones  —  youth  and  age  alike  bloomless  and  unlovely. 

In  a  meadow  on  the  hills  that  encompass  the 
city,  I  found  the  American  dandelion  in  bloom -and 
some  large  red  clover,  and  started  up  some  skylarks 
as  I  might  start  up  the  field  sparrows  in  our  own  up- 
lying  fields. 


FROM  LONDON  TO  NEW  YORK.      247 

Is  the  magpie  a  Celt  and  a  Catholic  ?  I  saw  not 
one  in  England,  but  plenty  of  them  in  France,  and 
again  when  I  reached  Ireland. 

At  Queenstown  I  awaited  the  steamer  from  Liver- 
pool, and  about  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning  was  de- 
lighted to  see  her  long  black  form  moving  up  the 
bay.  She  came  to  anchor  about  a  mile  or  two  out, 
and  a  little  tug  was  in  readiness  to  take  us  off.  A 
score  or  more  of  emigrants,  each  with  a  bag  and  box, 
had  been  waiting  all  the  morning  at  the  wharf.  When 
the  time  of  embarkation  arrived,  the  agent  stepped 
aboard  the  tug  and  called  out  their  names  one  by  one, 
when  Bridget  and  Catherine  and  Patrick  and  Mi- 
chael, and  the  rest,  came  aboard,  received  their  tick- 
ets and  passed  ''forward  "  with  a  half-frightened,  half- 
bewildered  look.  But  not  much  emotion  was  dis- 
played until  the  boat  began  to  move  off,  when  the 
tears  fell  freely,  and  they  continued  to  fall  faster  and 
faster  and  the  sobs  to  come  thicker  and  thicker,  un- 
til, as  the  faces  of  friends  began  to  fade  on  the  wharf, 
both  men  and  women  burst  out  into  a  loud,  unre- 
strained bawl.  This  sudden  demonstration  of  grief 
seemed  to  frighten  the  children  and  smaller  fry,  who 
up  to  this  time  had  been  very  jovial ;  but  now,  sus- 
pecting something  was  wrong,  they  all  broke  out  in  a 
most  pitiful  chorus,  forming  an  anti-climax  to  the 
wail  of  their  parents  that  was  quite  amusing,  and 
that  seemed  to  have  its  effect  upon  the  "  children 
of  a  larger  growth,"  for  they  instantly  hushed  their 
lamentations  and  turned  their  attention  toward  the 


248  AN   OCTOBER   ABROAD. 

great  steamer.  There  was  a  rugged  but  bewildered 
old  granny  among  them  on  her  way  to  join  her  daugh- 
ter somewhere  in  the  interior  of  New  York  who 
seemed  to  regard  me  with  a  kindred  eye,  and  toward 
whom,  I  confess,  I  felt  some  family  affinity.  Before  we 
had  got  half  way  to  the  vessel,  the  dear  old  creature 
missed  a  sheet  from  her  precious  bundle  of  worldy  ef- 
fects, and  very  confidentially  told  me  that  her  suspi- 
cions pointed  to  the  stoker,  a  bristling,  sooty,  "wild 
Irishman."  The  stoker  resented  the  insinuation,  and 
I  overheard  him  berating  the  old  lady  in  Irish  so 
sharply  and  threateningly  (I  had  no  doubt  of  his 
guilt)  that  she  was  quite  frightened,  and  ready  to  re- 
tract the  charge  to  hush  the  man  up.  She  seemed 
to  think  her  troubles  had  just  begun.  If  they  be- 
haved thus  to  her  on  the  little  tug,  what  would  they 
not  do  on  board  the  great  black  steamer  itself?  So 
when  she  got  separated  from  her  luggage  in  getting 
aboard  the  vessel,  her  excitement  was  great,  and  I 
met  her  following  about  the  man  whom  she  had  ac- 
cused of  filching  her  bed  linen,  as  if  he  must  have 
the  clew  to  the  lost  bed  itself.  Her  face  brightened 
when  she  saw  me,  and  giving  me  a  terribly  hard 
wink  and  a  most  expressive  nudge,  said  she  wished 
I  would  keep  near  her  a  little.  This  I  did,  and  soon 
had  the  pleasure  of  leaving  her  happy  and  reassured 
beside  her  box  and  bundle. 

The  passage  home,  though  a  rough  one,  was  cheer- 
fully and  patiently  borne.  I  found  a  compound  mo- 
tion, the  motion  of  a  screw  steamer,  a  roll  and  a 


FROM  LONDON   TO  NEW  YORK.  249 

plunge,  less  trying  to  my  head  than  the  simple  rock- 
ing or  pitching  of  the  side-wheeled  Scotia.  One  mo- 
tion was  in  a  measure  a  foil  to  the  other.  My  brain, 
acted  upon  by  two  forces,  was  compelled  to  take  the 
hypothenuse,  and  I  think  the  concussion  was  con- 
siderably diminished  thereby.  The  vessel  was  for- 
ever trembling  upon  the  verge  of  immense  watery 
chasms  that  opened  now  under  her  port  bows,  now 
under  her  starboard,  and  that  almost  made  one  catch 
for  his  breath  as  he  looked  into  them  ;  yet  the  noble 
ship  had  a  way  of  skirting  them  or  striding  across 
them  that  was  quite  wonderful.  Only  five  days  was 
I  compelled  to  "  hole  up  "  in  my  state-room,  hiber- 
nating, weathering  the  final  rude  shock  of  the  At- 
lantic. Part  of  this  time  I  was  capable  of  feeling  a 
languid  'interest  in  the  oscillations  of  my  coat  sus- 
pended from  a  hook  in  the  door.  Back  and  forth, 
back  and  forth,  all  day  long  vibrated  this  black  pen- 
dulum, at  long  intervals  touching  the  sides  of  the 
room,  indicating  great  lateral  or  diagonal  motion  of 
the  ship.  The  great  waves,  I  observed,  go  in  packs 
like  wolves.  Now  one  would  pounce  upon  her,  then 
another,  then  another  in  quick  succession,  making  the 
ship  strain  every  nerve  to  shake  them  off.  Then  she 
would  glide  along  quietly  for  some  minutes  and  my 
coat  would  register  but  a  few  degrees  in  its  imagin- 
ary arc,  when  another  band  of  the  careering  demons 
would  cross  our  path  and  harass  us  as  before.  Some- 
times they  would  pound  and  thump  on  the  sides  of 
the  vessel  like  immense  sledge  hammers,  beginning 


250          AN  OCTOBER  ABROAD. 

away  up  toward  the  bows  and  quickly  running  down 
her  whole  length,  jarring,  raking,  and  venting  their 
wrath  in  a  very  audible  manner ;  or  a  wave  would 
rake  along  the  side  with  a  sharp,  ringing,  metallic 
sound,  like  a  huge  spear  point  seeking  a  vulnerable 
place,  or  some  hard-backed  monster  would  rise  up 
from  the  deep  and  grate  and  bump  the  whole  length 
of  the  keel,  forcibly  suggesting  hidden  rocks  and  con- 
sequent wreck  and  ruin. 

Then  it  seems  there  is  always  some  biggest  wave 
to  be  met  with  somewhere  on  the  voyage,  a  monster 
billow  that  engulfs  disabled  vessels  and  sometimes 
carries  away  parts  of  the  rigging  of  the  stanchest. 
This  big  wave  struck  us  the  third  day  out  about  mid- 
night, and  nearly  threw  us  all  out  of  our  berths,  and 
careened  the  ship  over  so  far  that  it  seemed  to  take 
her  last  pound  of  strength  to  right  herself  up  again. 
There  was  a  slamming  of  doors,  a  rush  of  crockery, 
and  a  screaming  of  women,  heard  above  the  general 
din  and  confusion,  while  the  steerage  passengers 
thought  their  last  hour  had  come.  The  vessel  before 
us  encountered  this  giant  wave  during  a  storm  in  mid 
ocean,  and  was  completely  buried  beneath  it ;  one  of 
the  officers  was  swept  overboard,  the  engines  sud- 
denly stopped,  and  there  was  a  terrible  moment  dur- 
ing which  it  seemed  uncertain  whether  the  vessel 
would  shake  off  the  sea  or  go  to  the  bottom. 

Besides  observing  the  oscillations  of  my  coat,  I 
had  at  times  a  stupid  satisfaction  in  seeing  my  two 
new  London  trunks  belabor  each  other  about  my 


FROM   LONDON    TO    NEW   YORK.  251 

state-room  floor.  Nearly  every  day  they  would  break 
from  their  fastenings  under  my  berth  and  start  on  a 
wild  race  for  the  opposite  side  of  the  room.  Natur- 
ally enough  the  little  trunk  would  always  get  the 
start  of  the  big  one,  but  the  big  one  followed  close 
and  sometimes  caught  the  little  one  in  a  very  uncom- 
fortable manner.  Once  a  knife  and  fork  and  a  break- 
fast plate  slipped  off  the  sofa  and  joined  in  the  race, 
but  if  not  distanced  they  got  sadly  the  worst  of  it, 
especially  the  plate.  But  the  carpet  had  the  most 
reason  to  complain.  Two  or  three  turns  sufficed  to 
loosen  it  from  the  floor,  when,  shoved  to  one  side,  the 
two  trunks  took  turns  in  butting  it.  I  used  to  allow 
this  sport  to  go  on  till  it  grew  monotonous,  when  I 
would  alternately  shout  and  ring  until  "  Robert " 
appeared  and  restored  order. 

The  condition  of  certain  picture-frames  and  vases 
and  other  frail  articles  among  my  effects,  when  I 
reached  home,  called  to  mind  not  very  pleasantly  this 
trunkeu  frolic. 

It  is  impossible  not  to  sympathize  with  the  ship  in 
her  struggles  with  the  waves.  You  are  lying  there 
wedged  into  your  berth,  and  she  seems  indeed  a  thing 
of  life  and  conscious  power.  She  is  built  entirely  of 
iron,  is  500  feet  long,  and  besides  other  freight  car- 
ries 2,oOO  tons  of  railroad  iron  which  lies  down  there 
flat  in  her  bottom,  a  dead,  indigestible  weight,  so  un- 
like a  cargo  in  bulk,  yet  she  is  a  quickened  spirit  for 
all  that.  You  feel  every  wave  that  strikes  her,  you 
feel  the  sea  bearing  her  down,  she  has  run  her  nose 


252  AN  OCTOBER   ABROAD. 

into  one  of  those  huge  swells,  and  a  solid  blue  wall 
of  water  tons  in  weight  comes  over  her  bows  and 
floods  her  forward  deck,  she  braces  herself,  every  rod 
and  rivet  and  timber  seems  to  lend  its  support,  you 
almost  expect  to  see  the  wooden  walls  of  your  room 
grow  rigid  with  muscular  contraction ;  she  trembles 
from  stem  to  stern,  she  recovers,  she  breaks  the  gripe 
of  her  antagonist  and  rising  up,  shakes  the  sea  from 
her  with  a  kind  of  gleeful  wrath ;  I  hear  the  torrents 
of  water  rush  along  the  lower  decks,  and  finding  a 
means  of  escape,  pour  back  into  the  sea,  glad  to  get 
away  on  any  terms,  and  I  say,  "Noble  ship!  you  are 
indeed  a  god  !  " 

I  wanted  to  see  a  first-class  storm  at  sea,  and  per- 
haps ought  to  be  satisfied  with  the  heavy  blow  or 
hurricane  we  had  when  off  -Sable  Islands,  but  I  con- 
fess I  was  not,  though,  by  the  lying-to  of  the  vessel 
and  the  frequent  soundings,  it  was  evident  there  was 
danger  about.  A  dense  fog  uprose,  which  did  not 
drift  like  a  land  fog,  but  was  as  immovable  as  iron ; 
it  was  like  a  spell,  a  misty  enchantment,  and  out  of 
this  fog  came  the  wind,  a  steady,  booming  blast,  that 
smote  the  ship  over  on  her  side  and  held  her  there 
and  howled  in  the  rigging  like  a  chorus  of  fiends. 
The  waves  did  not  know  which  way  to  flee ;  they 
were  heaped  up  and  then  scattered  in  a  twinkling. 
I  thought  of  the  terrible  line  of  one  of  our  poets  :  — 

"  The  spasm  of  the  sky  and  the  shatter  of  the  sea." 
The  sea  looked  wrinkled  and  old,  and  oh,  so  pitiless  ! 
I  had  stood  long  before  Turner's  "  Shipwreck  "  in  the 


FROM  LONDON  TO  NEW  YORK.      253 

National  Gallery  in  London,  and  this  sea  recalled 
his,  and  I  appreciated  more  than  ever  the  artist's 
great  powers. 

These  storms  it  appears,  are  rotary  in  their  wild 
dance  and  promenade  up  and  down  the  seas.  "  Look 
the  wind  squarely  in  the  teeth,"  said  an  ex-sea-cap- 
tain among  the  passengers,  "  and  eight  points  to  the 
right  in  the  northern  hemisphere  will  be  the  centre 
of  the  storm,  and  eight  points  to  the  left  in  the  south- 
ern hemisphere."  I  remembered  that  in  Victor 
Hugo's  terrible  dynamics,  storms  revolved  in  the 
other  direction  in  the  northern  hemisphere,  or  fol- 
lowed the  hands  of  a  watch,  while  south  of  the  equator 
they  no  doubt  have  ways  equally  original. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  the  storm  abated,  the  fog 
was  suddenly  laid,  and  looking  toward  the  setting 
sun,  I  saw  him  athwart  the  wildest,  most  desolate 
scene  that  it  was  ever  my  fortune  to  behold  the  face 
of  that  god.  The  sea  was  terribly  agitated,  and  the 
endless  succession  of  leaping,  frothing  waves  between 
me  and  the  glowing  west,  formed  a  picture  I  shall 
not  soon  forget. 

I  think  the  excuse  that  is  often  made  in  behalf  of 
American  literature,  namely,  that  our  people  are  too 
busy  with  other  things  yet,  and  will  show  the  proper 
aptitude  in  this  field  too  as  soon  as  leisure  is  afforded, 
is  fully  justified  by  events  of  daily  occurrence. 
Throw  a  number  of  them  together  without  anything 
else  to  do,  and  they  at  once  communicate  to  each 
other  the  itch  of  authorship.  Confine  them  on  board 


254  AN   OCTOBER  ABROAD. 

an  ocean  steamer,  and  by  the  third  or  fourth  day  a 
large  number  of  them  will  break  out  all  over  with  a 
sort  of  literary  rash  that  nothing  will  assuage  but 
some  newspaper  or  journalistic  enterprise,  which  will 
give  the  poems  and  essays  and  jokes  with  which  they 
are  surcharged  a  chance  to  be  seen  and  heard  of  men. 
I  doubt  if  the  like  ever  occurs  among  travelers  of 
any  other  nationality.  Englishmen  or  Frenchmen 
or.  Germans  want  something  more  warm  and  human, 
if  less  "  refined ;  "  but  the  average  American,  when  in 
company,  likes  nothing  so  well  as  an  opportunity  to 
show  the  national  trait  of  "  smartness."  There  is 
not  a  bit  of  danger  that  we  shall  ever  relapse  into 
barbarism  while  so  much  latent  literature  lies  at  the 
bottom  of  our  daily  cares  and  avocations,  and  is  sure 
to  come  to  the  surface  the  moment  the  latter  are  sus- 
pended or  annulled ! 

While  abreast  of  New  England,  and  I  don't  know 
how  many  miles  at  sea,  as  I  turned  in  my  deck  prom- 
enade, I  distinctly  scented  the  land  —  a  subtle,  de- 
licious odor  of  farms  and  homesteads,  warm  and 
human,  that  floated  on  the  wild  sea  air,  a  promise  and 
a  token.  The  broad  red  line  that  had  been  slowly 
creeping  across  our  chart  for  so  many  weary  days, 
indicating  the  path  of  the  ship,  had  now  completely 
bridged  the  chasm,  and  had  got  a  good  purchase 
down  under  the  southern  coast  of  New  England,  and 
according  to  the  reckoning  we  ought  to  have  made 
Sandy  Hook  that  night ;  but  though  the  position  of 
the  vessel  was  no  doubt  theoretically  all  right,  yet 


FROM   LONDON   TO   NEW   YORK.  2o5 

practically  she  proved  to  be  much  farther  out  at  sea, 
for  all  that  afternoon  and  night  she  held  steadily  on 
her  course,  and  not  till  next  morning  did  the  coast  of 
Long  Island,  like  a  thin  broken  cloud  just  defined  on 
the  horizon,  come  into  view.  But  before  many  hours 
we  had  passed  the  Hook,  and  were  moving  slowly  up 
the  bay  in  the  mid-day  splendor  of  the  powerful  and 
dazzling  light  of  the  New  "World  sun.  And  how  good 
things  looked  to  me  after  even  so  brief  an  absence ! 
the  brilliancy,  the  roominess,  the  deep  transparent 
blue  of  the  sky,  the  clear,  sharp  outlines,  the  metro- 
politan splendor  of  New  York,  and  especially  of 
Broadway ;  and  as  I  walked  up  that  great  thorough- 
fare and  noted  the  familiar  physiognomy  and  the 
native  nonchalance  and  independence,  I  experienced 
the  delight  that  only  the  returned  traveler  can  feel, 
the  instant  preference  of  one's  own  country  and  coun- 
trymen over  all  the  rest  of  the  world. 


THE  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

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